


you only die twice

by kafkas



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Espionage, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, This was only meant to be 6000 words R.I.P. me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkas/pseuds/kafkas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Hey, I’m just one guy.’</i>
  <br/>
  <i>‘Yes, and I still don’t know your name.’ Curt looks over, finds that Carvour is gazing at him with those big, wet-black eyes. ‘I didn’t catch it.’</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Curt swallows.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>‘We’re not supposed to swap names. You know that.’</i>
  <br/>
  <i>‘We’re not supposed to be having a civil conversation either, yet here we are.’ Carvour smiles, quick and wide. ‘I’d say that’s international relations at its finest.’</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	you only die twice

**Author's Note:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZFScP4B4Q4)

  

 

 

**Prologue**

**Tehran: August, 1953**

When Curt first meets Owen Carvour, he’s been going by Owen Caruthers for the better part of a year and is showing no sign of slowing down. Curt finds him in a bar in Gomrok Town after being sent the order from Cynthia, and it takes him a few minutes to realize that the investment banker he’s been chatting up _is_ actually an investment banker, and that Carvour is the rangy guy conversing good-naturedly with the bartender a few stools away.

His accent, when he greets him, is impeccably foreign. Armenian, Curt thinks. Is _barev_ Armenian? His Rs are soft and feathery. He asks Curt about the hotel he’s staying in – ‘a hovel’ – and he asks him how long’s he’s been here for – ‘too long.’

He asks him how he’s finding Tehran.

‘Hot, and repulsive. Nobody here says what they mean.’

‘Yes, that does seem to be the _vox populi_ at the moment. Well, the English _populi,_ that is.’ Carvour may have the accent down but he still sounds like a boarding-school prick. ‘I’d share with you some of my handler’s choicer words on the subject but I’m afraid we’d be made to vacate the premises.’

‘I take it your lot aren’t too happy with everything that’s happened?’

‘It’s not so much that we’re unhappy but that we’re bored witless. Can I buy you a drink?’

Curt selects something cheap and vaguely fruity from the menu – it is nine o’clock in the morning, after all – and watches with reluctant admiration as Carvour orders it for him.

‘You’ve been with Intelligence a while then?’

‘A little under two years, actually.’

 _Well._ ‘You some sort of, uh –’ Curt waggles his fingers, ‘– savant or something?’

‘Savant?’ Carvour honest to god chortles, ‘Good lord, no. No, I… I suppose I just like people. Getting to know them. I’ve always been good at impressions.’

‘You’d like my boss.’

‘I highly doubt that.’

Carvour goes to sip his drink, then glances at Curt contritely over the rim of his glass. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound as rude as it did. But you must understand, the embargo was our business. The CIA didn’t have to get involved. Now everything’s gone balls to the wall mad and you’re still trying to elect a new prime-minister in the midst of it all.’

‘Hey, I’m just one guy.’

‘Yes, and I still don’t know your name.’ Curt looks over, finds that Carvour is gazing at him with those big, wet-black eyes. ‘I didn’t catch it.’

Curt swallows.

‘We’re not supposed to swap names. You know that.’

‘We’re not supposed to be having a civil conversation either, yet here we are.’ Carvour smiles, quick and wide. ‘I’d say that’s international relations at its finest.’

Curt looks away, fiddles with his glass. He drags a finger along the inside, carving a path through the foam.

‘Come on, don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet _now_. I was just starting to like you.’

‘Yeah,’ Curt snorts, ‘Maybe on our next date I’ll let you get to second base.’

‘And a sense of humor too! No wonder they leave you to do all the heavy lifting. And you do – heavy lift, don’t you?’ Carvour appraises him thoughtfully, ‘Korea?’

‘No.’

‘Huh.’ Carvour keeps looking at him for another long moment, and then abruptly jumps to his feet. ‘Come on.’

Despite himself, Curt reaches for his jacket and sunglasses.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Razi Park. My hotel’s across the way from there and I know for a fact it’s not bugged.’ He sees Curt’s reluctance and laughs, swinging an arm over his shoulders. ‘It’s a wonderful walk, really. You’ll love it. Have you actually bothered to get to know Tehran?’

‘I thought _vox populi_ said Tehran was hot and repulsive.’

‘Yes, but I’m not a part of that majority.’ And there’s the grin again, white as the battered panama hat perched above it.

Curt doesn’t stand a chance.

 

 

 

Later, on the bridge, Carvour apologizes.

‘I wasn’t trying to pick you up back there. I know that’s what it looked like, but I had to be careful. Mossadegh’s got ears everywhere these days.’

‘Better to be arrested for one thing and not the other,’ Curt agrees, and tries not to sound disappointed. Because he’s not disappointed.

He drapes his arms over the railing and stares out at Mount Tochal, heaving a sigh. There’s no snow up there, not at this time of year, but if this debacle with the Tudeh drags on any longer he might be able to get a couple of runs in. It’s as he’s thinking this that Carvour comes to rest beside him, lighting a cigarette. He offers Curt one, and Curt accepts, because they’ll never see each other again and he won’t have to read too much into the way he relishes the warmth of Carvour’s hand cupped beside his face.

‘MI6 has been intercepting your transmissions,’ Carvour murmurs. It takes a moment to register. ‘You’ve been ordered to leave. If you don’t, Mossadegh’s got the jurisdiction to have you all shot.’

Curt pulls away, choking on smoke.

‘Wh-what?’

‘Or stoned, maybe, I don’t know.’

‘I thought MI6 wanted us to leave?’

Carvour shakes his head gravely.

‘Not anymore. I’m afraid you’ve rather bolloxed this up beyond repair. It would be best for everyone if you remained here and maintained foreign policy.’

Curt begins to argue. He’ll have to tell Cynthia about this, of course, and then there’s the more pressing issue of Kermit Roosevelt and his fucking deposal campaign. He’s not sure which frightens him more.

Carvour shushes him – actually shushes him – and leans back against the nearest lamppost, languid and amused.

‘I’ve gotten you all hot and bothered now, haven’t I?’ Curt can’t answer, can only emit a sort of angry squawk. ‘Relax, it’ll all sort itself out. As we speak, Fazlollah Zahedi is conspiring with the Shah to raise anti-communist sentiment within Iran. Before the year is out, the people will have overthrown Mossadegh and crowned him as their new prime minister. Then trade routes will open up again and England will have been let off the hook.’

‘Yes, but! _But –_ ’ Curt raises a forbidding finger in a movement he’s stolen from Cynthia, ‘He’s doing that with Behbahani dollars! He’s doing that with money that belongs to the _CIA_.’

‘And in a couple more months you would have spent twice that amount funding your own personal coup. So why not let the Iranians do it for you free of charge?’

Curt can’t argue with that kind of logic. He sees Carvour tip his head back, exposing the long column of his neck, and feels the strongest urge to punch him there.

‘Why’d you do this anyway? Why string me along? You’ve got the reports with you.’

Carvour uses one hand to swing his satchel forward, revealing a dossier stuffed full to bursting. Curt takes the lot, although he stupidly has no bag of his own to store it in, so he stuffs everything inside the lining of his jacket and prays to god the sweat doesn’t damage the paper. Cynthia would have a field day.

‘Maybe,’ Carvour’s still looking at him, those eyes slipped down to half-mast, ‘Maybe I did it because I like you.’

And Curt can’t argue with that either.

 

 

 

**Kaliningrad: November, 1961**

The first time, Curt couldn’t seem to go three steps without breaking down in tears. He’d think he had it under control, would draw in breath after steady breath, only to come undone again at the slightest prompt. Cynthia had told him to suck it up, although beneath all of her bluster he could see that she was deeply uncomfortable. She’d only been director for a year or so, and had never lost an agent, had probably never had to deal with that kind of grief before. He knew she would chew him out for it later, tell him it was all his fault, but for a month or so she stayed well away, gave him his space. It made things all the worse when Curt returned to file for an LOA.

‘Fuck compassion,’ Cynthia had snapped, ‘You should have saved him.’

Now, his hands are steady as he searches Owen’s pockets. He’s got nothing on him but a Bic lighter and a couple of forints left over from Budapest, which is just typical, really. Owen always dedicated himself to the role, never carried anything on him that could be misconstrued.

He calls Barb and tells her to send a retrieval team, manages to fend off her adoring sighs long enough to tell her that Owen’s dead, he killed him, he shot him at point blank range with a high caliber pistol.

Barb goes quiet.

‘Barb,’ he says, and some distant part of himself is proud that his voice remains even, ‘I don’t know what to do. I think I’m in shock. I can fend it off for now but it’s going to get worse the longer I’m alone here with him. Worse like ’57.’

‘Okay,’ her voice is quiet.

‘How’s Tatiana?’

‘She’s good, she – I think we’re going to win this one.’

‘Good.’ He hangs up, tosses the radio across the warehouse. It clatters against the far wall and hits the floor intact. He tries to search Owen’s body again, tries not to look at his face. He briefly considers taking an item of clothing – the jacket, maybe, or a strip of shirt. Something to hold on to.

Instead, he settles for his gun and holster. It’s a beautiful gun, a luger. He hadn’t been using it when they were working together in Berlin. Hadn’t even been using it the last time they stood in this warehouse, in 1957, when Curt had tossed his life away like that banana peel. Owen had always despised anything German.

He takes the luger and closes the corpse’s eyes. His hand lingers for a moment, feeling the soft, purpled skin beneath Owen’s eyes – _he never did sleep well, he was always on, always wired, always scheming, always –_ and finally, finally begins to tremble.

Curt waits in that warehouse in Kaliningrad for six hours before they find him, staring dead ahead at the discarded radio. There’s a rust stain on the wall above it. There’s scream lodged somewhere in his throat.

 

 

 

**Geneva: May, 1954**

They meet for the second time in an elevator at the Métropole. Carvour is clean-shaven and smartly dressed, a world away from the war journalist he was playing in Iran. It takes Curt a moment to recognize him, and when he does, Carvour greets him like an old friend, asks if he’s here for the accords.

‘Sort of.’ There’s a Russian official here, a member of the Presidium, whose wife the CIA thinks might be susceptible to a honeypot. It’s Curt’s job to carry out an affair with her, gain her trust, maybe get her to defect. ‘Every little counts,’ as Allen Dulles had put it. Dulles had come down from Washington especially to commend Curt for his efforts. It had only served to make Curt nervous. He’s never had much luck with women. Maybe Dulles could see that.

That night at the pool, Carvour surfaces at the foot of Curt’s sunbed, a look of concern on his face.

‘Poopin – that’s the young guy, right? Very serious.’ He mimicks a couple of facial expressions, raised a hand as if he were giving a speech.

‘That’s the one.’ Curt lowers his newspaper, frowning. ‘Why? You got something on him?’

‘No.’ Carvour slips back under the water. Curt watches the long, lean line of him shimmer and disappear, only to resurface at the opposite end of the pool a few moments later. ‘You’ll have trouble with the wife, though,’ he calls, ‘ _Ona lesbiyanka._ ’

‘Of course,’ Curt pretends he understands, then, a moment later, _actually_ understands. ‘Wait. What?’

But Carvour is already making his way up the stairs, tugging at his swimming trunks as he does so. Curt feels himself flush and buries his head in the newspaper. A moment later, he hears the door to the recreation center slide shut, and he is alone with his thoughts. _I could blackmail her_ , he thinks, and then, _no – fuck, stop._ He barely knows Carvour as a person, let alone an agent. Who’s to say he doesn’t have his own agenda here? That he hasn’t told Curt this in order to throw him off the scent?

Curt slips back in his chair, satisfied. He’ll meet with Polina Poopin tomorrow night at the gala and he will dazzle her with his wit and charm. And Owen Carvour can watch from the sidelines, then slink back to England with his tail between his legs.

 

 

 

The news breaks pretty quickly after that. Curt is awoken by the phone ringing on his bedside table. It’s the girl from reception informing him that Cynthia Houston is on line one and she is patching her through now. Before Curt can object, he’s subjected to the angriest women in all of Boston screaming down the receiver that Owen Carvour has secured vital Soviet intel. Apparently he convinced Poopin some time in the early hours of the morning to reveal a payment on a load of weapon’s grade uranium.

‘What? How?’ he asks, once she’s sufficiently calmed down.

‘ _You can ask him yourself. You’re both on a plane to the Philippines in three hours – there’s an arms dealer trying to escape from Central Luzon. Melchor de la Vega. He’s the one selling the uranium_ ,’ Cynthia’s voice drops an octave, deadly, ‘ _You’re lucky I secured you this mission. Dulles wanted to drop you from the HUMINT altogether, stick you at a desk. I don’t know why I put up with you at all_.’

‘Because I have the highest success rate of all of the agents on your team?’

‘ _Don’t push it, fuck-face_.’ The dial tone sounds out like the low, dark toll of a church bell.

He lies there for a moment, trying to keep his breathing measured, then rises. He rises and he readies his bags methodically. It’s not quite summer in the Philippines and he’ll need to pack light. He selects clothes that are plain, inconspicuous. All the while, the questions he had asked Cynthia rattle about inside his head.

How had Carvour done it? Why had he risked approaching Poopin directly, rather than going through his wife? Where _did_ Poopin’s wife factor into all this? Why had Carvour even bothered telling him about her predilections at all?

And another question, one he didn’t ask Cynthia, lingering in his subconscious: _why do I feel so shitty about all this?_

He’s failed missions before, and this is hardly a failure. A kick in the teeth for the CIA, definitely, but there’s still allies. He thinks back to Tehran, remembers his words on the bridge.

_Why string me along?_

 

 

 

When Carvour knocks on his door fifteen minutes later, Curt is sitting on the bed, his hands fisted on his knees. He teases his face into something less petulant and forces himself to congratulate the Englishman on a successful recruitment. Carvour waves him away as they make their way to the parking lot.

‘It’s hardly a recruitment, old boy. Poopin will return to Russia in July and never speak to any of us again. He doubtless feels terrible about all this.’

‘You blackmailed him,’ Curt says, knowingly. Carvour looks confused, so Curt elaborates: ‘About his wife.’ And then, Curt can’t explain it properly, but something in Carvour’s gaze switches off. It’s as if Carvour were speaking to him as a friend before, and now he’s only speaking to him as a mark. The smile is still there, for sure, but the smile is a spy’s greatest asset. Curt knows a fake one when he sees it.

It’s only when they’re on the plane that Carvour inclines his head, seems to stop thinking about whatever he’s been thinking about and comes to a decision.

‘It was… a marriage of convenience.’

Curt looks up from the safety booklet he’s been pretending to read, leans forward across the little divider between them.

‘You… with Poopin?’

‘No. I was prepared to – lie back and think of England, all of that tosh. But it’s not like that. He loves her, deeply.’

‘But she doesn’t love him?’

‘They’re very good friends. Friends since childhood, I think. When he caught on that I knew, you – you should have seen the look in his eyes, Mega, it was like he was going to strangle me.’

Curt absorbs this. He wonders about the danger Carvour poses to himself, wonders if they’re one in the same. He certainly wouldn’t put himself alone in a room with Vladimir Poopin.

Then he pauses, his next response dying on the tip of his tongue. He stares at Carvour.

‘You did threaten him, didn’t you?’

Carvour smiles that same, thin smile, and reaches across to steal one of Curt’s peanuts.

‘You’d be surprised how much you can get out of a man if you speak to him like a he’s a logical, forward-thinking individual. Especially when everybody else believes that he isn’t.’

‘You just _asked_ him for the shipment details?’

‘I’m very persuasive.’ Carvour shells the peanut, pops it into his mouth. ‘I suggest you study up, Mega. Not everything can be solved with brute force.’ Curt sees a little warmth come back into his eyes, although he can also tell that Carvour feels subtly disappointed to have been saddled with a new partner, and an American one at that.

Curt can’t say he feels the same way.

**Sloviskian Capital: November, 1961**

He collapses into Tatiana’s arms the moment the skids hit the ground in Sloviskia.

‘Curt,’ she says, and nothing else because she knows that anything more would be useless, that anything more would drive him to tears.

‘He’s dead,’ he manages to choke, ‘He’s dead, Tatiana, I killed him.’

‘I know, Barb said –’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking, I – I had him cornered, I could have negotiated, I could have – _oh my god_.’ He hides his face in her shoulder, balls his fists in her jacket. He will not cry.

‘Curt, there are some men here who need to ask you some questions.’

He looks up, looks over her head, recognizes some of the guys he used to work with at Langley. They are staunchly avoiding eye contact, hands stuffed deep into their coat pockets. It registers with him now that he has broken international law, and that he is going to have to suffer consequences for this. The last few weeks it has been as if he were dreaming. A surreal, terrible dream.

‘Curt, come on.’ Tatiana pushes him away gently, grips his hands tightly in her own and forces them off of her person. The blades from the chopper are powering down now and the draft is blowing her hair back out of her face. She’s very beautiful, he thinks, and he both hopes for and pities the other men that will come into her life.

What happens next occurs in fragments. He is relieved of his weapons and bundled into an armored van, which then transports him to the American embassy. They are all cuffed – Tatiana a little more roughly than he and Barb, he notices – and marched from the entrance hall down a long, dark corridor.  

The cells they are put in are nice, he supposes, in retrospect. White bars, whitewashed walls. A floor that was probably once whitewashed too but is now scuffed with shoe marks. There is a sink and a toilet, a mirror (which he does not look in) and a bed (which he does not sleep in).

Later that evening, Curt assumes – although he cannot be certain – they never turn the lights out – a guard appears with a fresh set of clothes for them all and a particularly virulent note from Cynthia. Curt asks him if he will ever get his gun back.

‘The beretta?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

The guard raises an eyebrow. ‘On how much your country wants you back.’

He begins to walk away. Curt moves to follow him and ends up running into a wall. ‘Wait! The luger – what about the luger?’

The guard gives him a grim look.

‘There were no bullets in the luger, Curt.’ It’s Tatiana, her face pressed up against the bars behind him. The guard nods in confirmation, and Curt feels his heart drop into his stomach. ‘He’d already spent the whole cartridge.’

‘We could give it back to you now if it wasn’t impounded,’ the guard supplies, sounding plaintive. He doubtless knows about his and Owen’s history, doubtless understands the bonds men form in adversity – although he cannot know the full extent of it, can _never_ know the full extent of it or else what remains of his life will be ruined.

The guard leaves, and Curt sinks to the ground, his head spinning. He wants to scream and rage, but he knows that would only serve to frighten Barb and to distress Tatiana. He’s caused them enough trouble as it is.

He settles for half turning to face them; the Russian by the bars, Barb half hidden in the shadows beneath the bunk.

‘We were in love,’ he murmurs, and sees Tatiana flinch. ‘We were in love and I think I thought that he might… still…’ He laughs, wetly, and wipes his eyes. ‘Oh, well. Guess you can’t win ‘em all.’

‘Curt,’ Tatiana says, again, and this time it is not because Curt can’t take what else she has to say but because she can’t think of anything to say at all. 

It is at this moment, of course, that the embassy decides to turn out the lights.

 

 

 

**Greater Luzon: May, 1954**

 

The CIA sets them up in a nipa hut twelve miles out from Manila. There’s no heating or electricity so if Curt wants to use his long-range transmitter he has to take a hike to the nearest pylon and climb it. There’s no running water either so a majority of Carvour’s time is spent wandering the jungle with a plastic tub at his hip, searching for streams and lakes in increasing states of undress. Not that Curt’s been looking.

Every day, Carvour will venture out of the hills and into the city to grill the locals, but there’s a guerilla war happening and nobody wants to trust a white guy in a Lacoste polo. Curt has significantly more success when he eventually takes matters into his own hands, because he’s big and he’s blatantly American. On their sixth day on the island, he corners a gunrunner behind a bar and garrotes him until he tells them where Vega is hiding.

‘Subic Bay,’ the runner splutters and, when Curt pulls the wire taut, ‘An industrial complex near Hanjin! Big – big blue shipping containers, you can’t miss it! Please let me go!’

Curt pistol-whips the guy and leaves him bleeding in a dumpster several blocks away, safely hidden from any curious PNPs. When he returns to the hut, Carvour is busy gutting a rabbit he’s found, using a box cutter to slit it crotch to jugular. The smell makes bile rise in the back of Curt’s throat.

‘Jesus Christ, do you have to do that near my bed?’

‘If I do it _outside_ –’ Carvour uses his thumb to scoop out the entrails, tipping them into the water bucket, ‘– rats will smell the blood. They will come and they will spread disease.’

He sees the look on Curt’s face and stills, blinking up at him.

‘Did something happen?’

‘Yeah, I found us our arms dealer, that’s what happened.’ Curt tosses him a map, and is more than a little smug to see the astonishment on Carvour’s face. ‘It’s a three hour drive. I don’t suppose you know any good cab companies round these parts?’

‘No, no, I – uh,’ Carvour’s still got that look on his face, ‘We’ll need to walk. It’s better that way, we’ll attract less attention.’

‘Suit yourself.’

 

 

 

‘Why _do_ you suppose they put us together?’ he asks, when they’re still a safe distance from the complex. Carvour, balaclava in place, hums.

‘I’m not sure. I never mentioned that we spoke, that night in Geneva. They probably saw us together and thought: _there are two exemplary agents, why not utilize their combined skillset for the greater good?_ ’

‘Maybe MI6 felt bad about stealing our mission out from under us and decided to lend you to us as a form of goodwill.’

‘Or _maybe_ this is an apology for the coup in Iran,’ Carvour shoots back, his eyes flashing, and before Curt can reply there comes a shout from somewhere off to their left. Carvour barrels into him without a second thought, sending them both sprawling down the embankment. Up above, Curt can hear men speaking in Tagalog, their flashlights cutting through the darkness; one of them is the gunrunner from Manila, probably out for revenge. He’s also aware of a sharp pain in his right shoulder, where it feels like a joint has been dislocated. Once the separatists have moved away, satisfied that the complex is free of any intruders, Carvour slides off of him, breathing heavily.

‘Are you alright?’

Curt nods and tries to stand up, then immediately topples over like some baby animal. The pain in his shoulder spikes and he has to bite down on his balaclava to keep from crying out. Carvour is concerned, but beneath his concern there is also a thinly veiled layer of irritation.

‘I thought you said you killed that guy.’

Curt shakes his head. ‘No – why would I –? I thought I had him spooked.’

He’s going to be sick. The thought of returning to the hut and all of its smells makes things worse.

‘You should have killed him,’ Carvour grumbles, and drags him to his feet. He begins to set off in the way they were already headed, a hand at Curt’s waist.

‘Wait – we’re not going back to –?’

‘I’m not about to sacrifice this mission’s integrity because you got a little squeamish about killing some commie.’

Carvour stumbles, rights himself, and pulls Curt closer. Curt has to remind himself that he fucked up, that he fucked up the mission and he has no right to find this as comforting as he does.

Half an hour later, the lights of the harbor and the industrial complex come into view, and Carvour sets him down on a piece of felled wood, removes Curt’s balaclava and feels about beneath his jaw, around his temples. He tilts Curt’s head from side to side and, when he feels that nothing is amiss, replaces the balaclava and straightens up. He reaches into his satchel and retrieves their wristwatches, checks them for damage. Then he meets Curt’s gaze, and it’s with the same look he gave him in Geneva.

‘This should be simple. In and out. If I don’t contact you in the next fifteen minutes, press this button three times and it’ll alert the retrieval team.’

‘But I –’

‘Don’t argue.’

Curt deflates, taking the watch and syncing it with Carvour’s. The pain in his shoulder has faded to a dull, insistent ache, and he is certain that if Carvour let him, he could still make the swim across the harbor and complete the mission, be the hero. But Carvour is looking at him with that cold, cold stare and all Curt can do is admonish himself for even caring about his opinion at all.

He does as he’s told, and when Carvour contacts him to tell him that the explosives have been successfully planted, he staggers to his feet and begins to long walk back to Manila. He ends up passing out in the spot where they were almost caught, and awakens an indefinite amount of time later with his arms draped over Carvour’s shoulders, feet dragging in the mud. Carvour is cold, and wet, and his hands are like icicles on the bare skin of Curt’s wrists.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaks and, when he receives no reply, he repeats the sentiment at a volume that cannot possibly be missed.  
Carvour sighs, and still he says nothing.  

 

 

 

‘I used to be a good agent.’ His voice is raw from screaming as the little Philippine doctor set his arm. Now, Carvour stares down at him, entirely unsympathetic. ‘I used to be a good agent before I met you and I don’t know what’s happened.’

‘You’re not a _bad_ agent, Mega.’ There’s something about Carvour’s native accent that makes everything he says sound painfully condescending.

Curt catches his wrist as he walks past the bed, and then suddenly that’s not enough. He wants to put his hands on every inch of Carvour’s skin, feel its dry warmth, see that quick white grin. Mostly, he wants Carvour to be astonished with him again.

‘They’re going to send us to Guatemala. Cynthia asked me if I wanted to apply for a transfer.’

‘What did you tell her?’ There’s a choking lump in Curt’s throat.

‘I told her we’d work it out amongst ourselves.’ Carvour turns to face him. ‘This isn’t a bloodless war anymore, Mega, you understand that don’t you?’

‘If this is about that guy in Manila –’

‘It’s not.’ Carvour gets down on his knees so that he can look Curt in the eye, and Curt’s enchanted. Curt’s beguiled. ‘I think you wish it was. I think you’re too confident in your own abilities.’

He draws in a deep breath.

‘Before, what I said about Poopin, it’s not because… You’ve got to understand that – I’m…’ He doesn’t know what he wants to say, only knows that he wants Carvour to understand. He settles for a more direct route: ‘I’m like Polina.’

He sees the realization dawn in Carvour’s eyes.

‘Does… Cynthia know?’

‘She suspects,’ Curt feels as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. ‘We don’t talk about it because there needs to be plausible deniability. If anything happened, if I was compromised or – or blackmailed –’

‘She’d be incriminated too.’

‘If you want to apply for a transfer now, I won’t hold it against you.’

Carvour stares at him for what feels like an eternity, face slack with shock. Then, as if a switch has been thrown, he purses his lips, shakes his head.

‘You don’t?’ He sounds pathetically hopeful.

‘No. I, uh… I don’t see a problem here.’

Carvour smooths down an invisible crease in his shirt, fiddles with his ID bracelet. Curt thinks he must be panicking, must be going over his options. He’s lying to him to protect his feelings and the moment they’re stateside he’s going to ruin Curt’s career.

But the moment never comes. They fly into Washington the next day and an agency doctor checks out Curt's arm, then they’re handed their mission files and shipped off to Guatemala.

Carvour still smiles at him, still encourages him to call him ‘ _Owen,_ not _Agent Carvour_ , for pity’s sake.’ He still jokes with him just as much as he clamps up if Curt puts them in any unnecessary danger. But he doesn’t _touch_ him anymore. Gone is the casual sling of his arm across Curt’s shoulders; gone is the careful probing he had administered that night in the jungle. When they are lucky enough to be allowed to pick their accommodation, he ensures that they are placed in separate rooms.

Once again, Curt pretends that he is not disappointed, because he’s gotten what he wanted, hasn’t he? He and Carvour – _Owen_ – are still partners, still friends. He should be happy. He _should_ be happy, but he’s not. Rather, he feels as if he has been betrayed.

**Washington: December, 1961**

He’s awoken to the feeling of the plane banking on a hard right, the straps of the jump seat straining against his abdomen. He lifts his head, wincing as it cricks, and glances about the cabin. Tatiana is asleep, he thinks, although it is entirely probably that she is only pretending (she _is_ a word class assassin, after all); the agents sent to collect them, too, their heads leant together and snoring softly. Only Barb is awake, and she looks calmer than Curt’s ever seen her before, staring out the airlock window with a hand at her chin. He opens his mouth to say something, then realizes he has nothing to say. By now, though, Barb’s noticed he’s awake and is turning to look at him, smiling weakly.

‘Hey there. You feeling alright?’

‘Not sure yet.’ Curt reaches up and adjusts his straps, tries to get some of the feeling back into his arms and legs, and sighs. ‘There we go.’

Barb laughs but it’s a small, tired laugh. Nothing like the full on snort-fests she’s so often prone to.

‘How long till we land?’

‘Oh, um –’ She rolls her sleeve up and checks her watch, ‘– half an hour, I think. I’m still on Sloviskian time, so I’m not sure how accurate that is.’

Curt nods, closes his eyes and tries to get a little more shuteye.

‘You know,’ Barb sounds thoughtful, ‘I’d never even considered that you were… y’know…’

‘Gay?’ Curt offers sharply.

‘In love with Owen,’ she says, giving him a pointed look. Then she softens, her gaze returning to the window. ‘Although I suppose it makes sense, in hindsight. You went into a bit of a downward spiral after he died…’ A beat. ‘Faked his death, I mean. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’

‘It’s alright.’

‘But it’s not though, is it?’ There are tears in her eyes. ‘I feel as if I’ve been so, _so_ stupid.’

‘Tatiana made the same mistake.’

‘Yeah, but she didn’t make it for seven years.’

She’s crying in earnest now – big, heaving sobs. Tatiana stirs in her seat, then blinks into consciousness, immediately frowning between he and Barb.

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing! Nothing, I –’

‘Shh, shh _mishka,_ don’t cry, don’t –’

‘And you know,’ Barb draws in a big, shuddering breath through her nose, ‘You know, I think he might have tried to tell me once. Owen, in West Berlin, during the rearmament. He was so angry with you and he – he let something slip about – about Damascus being wasted on you and – and I didn’t want to _believe_ , so I –’ She stops crying, abruptly, and turns away from them all, focusing once more on the snow white nothingness of the cloud surrounding them. ‘God. I’ve been so blind, haven’t I?’

Curt and Tatiana exchange a look. She doesn’t tell him off again – she knows what this is and she knows it isn’t his fault, not really – it’s not as if he ever led her on, after all – but she doesn’t entirely back down either.

‘What?’ Curt mouths, and she jerks her head towards Barb. He shrugs his shoulders and she scowls at him, continues to jerk her head. They keep on arguing like this, silently, until Curt finally gives in with a long-suffering sigh, and stretches his foot forward, nudging Barb’s. She looks up and, god bless her, still as the energy to look surprised.

‘Barb,’ he says, with all the sincerity he can muster, ‘Thank you for everything that you’ve done for me. Any man would be lucky to have you.’

‘Curt,’ says Tatiana, menacingly.

‘Not – not that you need a man, to validate you,’ he scrambles, ‘You don’t need validation, Barb, you’re perfectly valid – perfectly _perfect_ – as you are. And – and I’m sorry for everything that we’ve put you through. I truly am.’

Barb blinks at him for a long moment in which he worries that everything he’s said has gone over her head, then smiles brightly.

‘Gee, Curt. I mean – _thank you_ , I – I accept your apology.’

Curt feels all of the tension leave him in one fell swoop. At least something’s gone right today.

 

 

 

When Cynthia walks across the tarmac to greet them she’s smiling, and for a single, shining moment Curt believes that his lucky streak has continued to last him. But Cynthia’s eyes are cold, and her smile is rictus.

‘He’s _ba-ack_.’ She jostles her shoulders from side to side in a little dance.

Curt laughs anxiously, and matches her singsong tone note for note, ‘I’m _ba-ack_.’

‘Just in time for Christmas,’ Cynthia growls, and then she slaps him, hard. Curt nearly topples over, clutching his face.

‘ _Ow!_ ’

‘Do you have any what you’ve put me through? Do you understand the – the full _scope_ of the _shit-storm_ you’ve just started?’

‘Yes, yes!’

‘I’ve got the entire Prussian-Sloviskian cabinet riding my ass for an unsanctioned breach of their border. I’ve got Soviet premier _Nikita Khrushchev_ on the red telephone, wanting to know why he’s suddenly being blamed for the death of that idiot prince. The Indonesian prime minister wants to know why a small island in his vicinity has been literally wiped off the face of the fucking earth, and – _and!_ ’ there it is, the finger, ‘the boys down at Langley tell me you’ve managed to blow a whopping 26,000 dollar hole in our international fund – and that’s not including the equipment you had Miss Lavernor here steal for you.’

Barb shrinks back behind him, ashamed, and Curt is tempted to tell Cynthia everything – about Chimera, about the advanced Nazi surveillance network, about _Owen_ – but decides to wait this one out because he barely has the strength to stand as it is. Meanwhile, Cynthia is up on her tiptoes and looks as if she’s about to jump down his throat.

‘Do you have anything at all to say for yourself, _Curtis?_ Because now would be a good fucking time to say it.’

‘I honestly don’t.’

‘That’s what I thought. Susan?’

Her assistant steps forward, ready to eat whatever piece of paper she thinks to press into his hand.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Have Agent Mega and his friends transported to Virginia for evaluation. And get me a coffee or something, I’m fucking exhausted.’

‘You can’t court marshal us!’ Tatiana exclaims, striding forward, ‘We’ve done nothing wrong!’

‘Not for court marshaling, _Jesus Christ_ ,’ Cynthia turns, already halfway lowered into her car, and glares at her, ‘ _Psych_ evaluation, you Ruskie fuck, to make sure none of you are going to snap and start shooting people from a fucking clock tower. _You,_ especially.’

Tatiana steps back, cowed. Cynthia slams the driver’s side door, puts on her sunglasses, lights a cigarette, and then rolls down the window. She jabs it at them.

‘Rest up, eat something nutritious. I fucking hate you all.’

And with that, she speeds away, leaving just the four of them: Curt, Tatiana, Barb and Susan.

‘I… drove here with her,’ says the latter, watching as the Rolls disappears into the distance, swerving loudly in order to avoid a small passenger jet. Curt reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache beginning to finger its way into his scull.

‘It’s good to be home.’

 

 

 

**The Tachen Islands: August, 1954**

‘On your six!’

Curt ducks just in time to miss knife that comes swiping down towards his shoulder. He kicks out, causing the man behind him to go toppling to the floor in a heap. Curt uses his feet to break his neck – it’s quick, efficient, and allows him to stay out of the line of fire. He hears the Chinese marquess cry out in horror and looks up just in time to see Owen knock out the man assailing her. He then sweeps her up into his arms, bridal style, and turns to Curt.

‘Ready?’

Curt nods, experiencing that familiar, jealous pang of not being in Owen Carvour’s arms, of not being Owen Carvour’s girl, and covers them as they make the dash from the warehouse to the PBR waiting on the beach.

‘ _Agent, do you read?_ ’ it’s Yazhu, the ROC major they’re working in adjunct with on this mission.

Curt raises his watch to his mouth, careful to keep one eye trained on Owen and the marquess.

‘This is Agent Curt Mega, copying _._ ’

‘ _Do you have the girl?_ ’

Curt sees movement on a fishing trawler a few meters away and shoots out its engine tank. The boat goes up in flames, and terrified commies jump screaming into the water. In the firelight he sees Owen look up from the dashboard of the cruiser and salute in thanks.

‘Yes. She’s a little, ah –’ he hears the marquess shriek something obscene as Owen tries to wrestle her aboard, ‘– _agitated_ , but she’s unharmed.’

‘ _Can I assure General Khúng of your arrival in Keelung City tomorrow?_ ’

‘Yes, I think you can, and major?’

‘ _Agent Mega._ ’

‘Inform the marquess’s family that she’s been recovered,’ Curt, certain that he is safe, rises from his crouching position by the loading bay. ‘They’re probably very worried about her.’

‘ _Will do. Over and out._ ’

Curt lowers his watch, and immediately feels something graze his neck, white hot and staggering.

‘Ah, shit!’ He spins around, one hand staunching the bleeding while another fires off round after round into the darkness of the warehouse. His gunfire pings off of something solid, and Curt doesn’t have time to react before a pair of headlights come blaring down on him, another hail of bullets tearing up the gravel beneath his feet.

‘ _Curt!_ ’ he hears Owen bellow, and throws himself towards that sound. The jeep misses him by a hair’s breadth, skidding out onto the sand and spinning around in a wide arc, tearing back towards him.

Curt’s heart is hammering in his chest. His eyes dart about, searching for cover, searching for an out. With a shout, he sprints for the loading crane parked beside the roller door, and, using a crate of PRC munitions for purchase, grabs ahold of the chain. He swings himself out over the jeep and lands, hard, in the sand. His knees and the palms of his hands scream in protest.

‘Curt, come – come on!’ Owen has already started the cruiser and is pulling out reluctantly into the breakwater. Curt hurls himself into the waves and is rewarded for his efforts with having the air punched out of his lungs by the cold. He surfaces, gasping, and thrashes after the boat.

Bullets pockmark the water before him, behind him, and when he finally reaches the hull he’s expecting some to pockmark his spine as the marquess pulls him aboard. But they don’t, miraculously.

The marquess’s hands flutter over his chest, afraid to touch for fear of hurting him. She asks, in faltering English, if he is alright.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ he bats her away, props himself up on one elbow, ‘Owen?’

Owen is hunched over the helm, posture low, shoulders squared. ‘Home stretch from here, my fellow.’ He glances over at Curt and frowns deeply before returning his gaze to the black expanse of water ahead of them. ‘Say, Shufen?’

The marquess looks up, her eyes wide. _Oh,_ Curt thinks, _so that’s her name._

‘Mister Carvour?’

‘Be a dear and take the wheel for – oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s not so hard.’ Shufen continues to protest, so Owen smiles sweetly and steps away, forcing her to scramble to her feet and practically throw herself at the dashboard. She hisses something at Owen and he laughs, pinching her on the ass. He then comes and squats down beside Curt, snapping his fingers at him demandingly. After a dumb moment, Curt lowers his hand immediately feels a hot swathe of blood run down his neck. His partner winces.

‘That looks like it stings. Mind if I have a look?’ A moment passes, in which it occurs to Curt that this is the first time Owen has touched him in this many months. ‘Mm. It’s just a surface wound. I daren’t say it’ll stop you from celebrating when we reach Taiwan tomorrow.’

Curt shakes his head, accepts a swig from the flask of whisky Owen offers him – they have gotten to know each other a _little_ – and leans back against the hull, sucking in a deep breath. He sees Owen track the movement closely.

‘I thought I’d lost you back there,’ he says, leaning back on his haunches.

‘Oh, you’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of me.’

‘Who said I wanted to get rid of you?’

The marquess is listening to their conversation, Curt can tell. Owen notices and glances over his shoulder, offering her a wave. He turns back to Curt, eyes sparkling.

‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Never really been out of the house before, but she’s got a mouth on her like a sailor. I wonder if she knows how to drink like one too.’ Owen shakes the flask at her and Shufen rolls her eyes, turning back to the helm. ‘Ah, she’ll come around, you’ll see.’

Curt tries not to sulk. He mustn’t succeed, because Owen leans forward, concerned. ‘Everything functioning as it should be, old boy?’

‘Oh yes, everything’s just ginger peachy,’ Curt simpers in a bad imitation of Owen’s accent. Owen draws away, miffed.

‘Well, you needn’t be so rude.’ He notices that Curt is still glaring at the back of Shufen’s head and glances between them. When he turns back to Curt, his gaze is wary. ‘I hope you know that… just because you’re – you know – _a friend of Mrs. King’s_ … doesn’t mean that I need to abstain from my own desires.’

‘Oh no, you’ve made that _very_ clear,’ Curt snaps, and then immediately rescinds with: ‘Christ, Owen, that’s not what I meant. Sit back down.’

Owen does as he’s told, hands spread wide as if to say, _go on, apologize._

‘I’m just –’ he flounders, ‘ – We almost died back there, and you’re always telling me to respect the integrity of the mission. I fail to see how chasing pussy’s going to further that.’

‘Did I say that the integrity of the mission had been endangered?’ When Curt can’t come up with an answer, Owen breaks out into a grin, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus, Curt, you talk about me like I’m some shaolin monk. But hey –’ he punctuates each word with another brotherly slap, ‘ _I’m glad you’re learning_.’  

He smiles stiffly and retrieves the flask again, taking another pull. Owen clambers to his feet and wanders back over to Shufen, goosing her in the side playfully. Curt takes his torn and bloodied hands and grinds them into his eyes, sighing heavily.

Owen Carvour is going to be the death of him, one way or another.

 

 

 

In Keelung City, he attempts to suture his own wounds and winds up tearing an even larger hole in his neck. Owen, still glowing from a full three hours of being thanked profusely and bowed to like some sort of king, lectures him only half seriously before sitting Curt up on the bathroom sink and sealing the wound himself. And all of a sudden it’s too close and it’s too much. It’s as if he’s going into sensory overload – probably _is_ , considering how exhausted he feels. Owen’s got a nice tan from months of field work in the jungle, and on the beach, and all Curt can think about is how nice it would be to bury his face in the notch at the base of his throat. The hands with their needle and thread are deft and elegant – long fingers, square palms; his mouth, so often set in that worried line, is too warm beside his ear, too open. If he only turned an inch or two, he could –

Curt twists his hands in fabric of his pajama bottoms, grits his jaw. This gives Owen pause.

‘Am I hurting you?’

Curt grunts, shaking his head, and Owen returns to his needle and thread. A few minutes later, the wound has been successfully sutured and Owen leans back to admire his work. It’s then that he sees the look on Curt’s face and freezes, stuttering over some unformed word.

Curt sucks in a shaky breath, as he had on the boat, and feels his feet slide to the floor of their own volition. It’s a small bathroom. They have to fight for space.

‘Owen,’ he whispers, still unsure of what he wants.

(That’s bullshit. He knows what he wants).

Thankfully, his partner rescues him before he can do any permanent damage to their working relationship, stumbling and nearly tripping as he backs out of the bathroom.

‘I think I’ve got some iodine in my bag,’ he says, and there’s a barely perceptible tremor in his voice, ‘The wound didn’t exactly cauterize so you’re still at risk for infection.’

Curt laughs the low, unhappy laugh of the deeply humiliated.

‘I think I’ll be fine.’

He hears Owen stop moving and imagines he must be intensely relieved.

‘Y-you’re sure?’

‘Yeah. You get some sleep and I’ll be out in a bit.’

He instantly regrets saying that. When the lights go off outside the bathroom, he’s only left feeling even more lost and alone than he was before. He turns and regards his reflection in the mirror – the three-day beard, the bags under his eyes, the healing pink scar tissue from where he’d been punched by one of those kidnappers – and wonders what Owen could ever possibly see in him.

He goes downstairs. He has a drink.

 

 

 

**Langley: January, 1962**

Apparently Patricia has been his primary psychologist since he first became a certified agent – twelve years ago – although he can truly say that he has never seen her before in his life. She’s a grim woman in her early twenties, probably a niece or a cousin of Cynthia’s, if her take-no-shit attitude is anything to go off of. It’s mandatory that he undergoes ten sessions with her before he is allowed to appeal to the board, and Curt knows how that’s going to go, so really Patricia is just a roadblock in his mission to take down Chimera.

The first time, he pretends he’s too upset to talk – which isn’t so far from the truth – and sits there staring at the paintings she has mounted on her walls. They’re boring, cubist, designed _not to be_ stared at. Patricia doesn’t let him get away with it for long.

She never _forces_ him to talk, oh no. She’s too clever for that. Rather, she sits there and waits for him to vent and, if Curt resists, she prompts him with these innocuous, easy to answer questions. Curt can refuse to answer, often does, but finds himself respecting her resolve in the same way he respects that of deep-cover sleeper agents and foreign recruitment officers.

Today, she asks him if there is anything bothering him, and Curt can’t help it, he can’t resist –

‘Yeah, uh. There is, actually.’

She quirks at eyebrow.

‘Oh? And what’s that?’

‘I’d like my gun back.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She licks a finger and turns a page in his file, reading slowly. ‘The… 1092 model Luger, with the nine millimeter Parabelum cartridge. That’s a nice piece of equipment you got there, Curtis. Far nicer than your standard issue berretta. Is that why you want it back so badly?’

‘It’s not mine,’ he grits, ‘It’s - _it was_ my partner’s.’

‘And by partner you mean Owen Carvour? Of MI6?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have no record here of him possessing this particular firearm.’

‘That’s because –’ Curt can sees she’s only trying to rile him up, and takes a deep breath, gripping the arms on the couch. ‘That’s because,’ he continues, measuredly, ‘He didn’t own that gun when he was my partner. He got it after he betrayed his country and went to work for Baron Von Nazi.’

‘And yet you still refer to him as your partner.’

‘Freudian slip, I guess,’ Curt smiles at her coolly, ‘Mister Carvour ceased to be my partner a long time ago.’

‘It must have been hard. Losing him twice. Tell me – how did his shooting of Agent Fallick make you feel?’ The informant. Curt immediately deflates, looking away. ‘And in such cold blood. Must have been quite uncharacteristic of him. I seem to remember it mentioning in here that, of the two of you, Mister Carvour was the one more inclined to mercy killings. You, on the other hand, seemed to take a sadistic pleasure in beating your enemies to a pulp –’

‘This is all besides the point,’ Curt objects, loudly, ‘Fallick knew the risks. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have agreed to help us. And Owen, he wasn’t – he wasn’t _Owen…_ anymore. I don’t know who I fought in that warehouse but it sure as shit wasn’t my partner. Owen wouldn’t have done the things that man did.’

‘But he did spare your life, yes?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t –’ he raises a shaking hand to his brow, ‘That can’t be confirmed.’

‘I have it here that, at the time of your detainment in Sloviskia, it was revealed to you that the cartridge in Mister Carvour’s gun was empty. This caused you no undue amount of distress.’

‘He… I behaved in a way that was inappropriate. But it disturbed me greatly to think that I had broken agency jurisdiction by shooting an unarmed captive.’

‘Do you think he knew the cartridge was empty?’

‘I don’t know.’ Logically, of course, the answer is _yes._ There was scarcely a thing Owen did that wasn’t meticulously well planned and thought through, right down to his elaborate vendetta of betrayal against Curt. But the alternative is by far the more attractive option: that Owen truly did hate him, and that if Curt hadn’t shot the luger out of his hand, he wouldn’t be standing here (lying on Patricia’s couch) today.

 _It’s sad,_ says a tiny voice in the back of his head. It’s Tatiana’s. _It’s sad that that’s your definition of an attractive option._

‘Tell me, Curtis,’ Patricia leans forward in her chair, pen pressed to the tip of her chin, ‘What frightens you more? That Owen knew the cartridge was empty, or that he didn’t?’

Curt scoffs. ‘Really?’

Patricia waits for him to elaborate.

‘Look – they’re both going to keep me awake at night! For a long time. There’s no right answer here. The question itself is the answer!’

‘Then perhaps it’s time we looked into the third option.’

‘Which is?’

Patricia sighs, and Curt could swear there’s a hint of compassion in her expression when she says: ‘That _you_ knew the cartridge was empty.’

 

 

 

**Damascus: February, 1955**

The Syrian minister’s daughter is very clever, and very beautiful, and Curt can tell that Owen is jealous because none of his usual chatter is pervading Curt’s earpiece tonight. Originally, MI6 had lobbied for their man to be the one to seduce Lady Khatijah, citing Owen’s similarity in build to her previous suitors and to her current fiancé.

‘Yeah, but that’s the point!’ Curt hard argued that afternoon, shoving Owen away from the transmitter. ‘These are all men that her father’s bought up for her. The only reason she’s marrying _this_ guy is because he’s the defense minister and he’d probably have her killed if she said no.’

‘ _And I suppose you have a better suggestion, Agent Mega?_ ’ Owen’s handler had huffed, managing to very effectively convey his pommieness from over three thousand miles away.

‘Sure, I’ve got a suggestion. Put me in the field.’

‘Curt –!’ Owen had exclaimed, trying to wrestle the mic away from him.

‘Look: naturally, she’s going to be attracted to men who are the exact opposite of the assholes her father’s been supplying her with, and while we can all agree Owen’s very charming…’ Owen had relaxed then, having had his ego stroked, ‘I think it would be beneficial to the mission if we gave Lady Khatijah a _real_ man to play with, not some wispy little boy.’ And just like that, Owen bristled again, resuming in his struggle for the mic.

‘ _He does have a point, Agent Carvour,_ ’ the pom sounded reluctantly impressed, ‘ _You don’t suppose you could sit this one out for the night, do you?_ ’

‘But Dickey –’

‘ _I_ know _you have a certain penchant for sweeping your marks off of their feet, but I think Agent Mega’s in the right in assuming that Lady Khatijah will only find you repulsive._ ’

Owen shut his mouth, a dark look coming over him.

‘ _Might I remind you that what is being done here is for the greater good, Agent Carvour, and not for your own personal benefit?_ ’

‘Yes sir.’

Owen had pushed his chair out, the wooden legs scraping loudly across the tiled floor of their hotel room. He’d left, and had not returned until late that evening, when Curt was due to leave for the engagement party.

Now, as he dances with Lady Khatijah, he can just make out Owen hidden behind one of the villa’s many marble columns, pretending to be very interested in the state of his cufflink. It’s really not fair. Curt knows that, if he were any other agent, Owen would have accepted his suggestion with little resistance. But Curt doesn’t _want_ Khatijah, will never want her, and Owen feels that he has been cheated by the undeserving.

And they still haven’t spoken about Taiwan.

‘You look as if you are thinking very hard about something.’ Khatijah is smiling beneath her veil, although very little amusement reaches her eyes. ‘Problems at the embassy?’

 _The embassy?_ Curt blinks, clearing his head. _Right, of course_. Tonight he is Michel Baudry, French ambassador to Lebanon and close friend of Hashim Ben Yahia, Khatijah’s father. (But Ben Yahia isn’t necessarily aware of that yet).

‘No. My problemz are perzonal, I am afraid. Matterz of zee eart.’

‘Ah.’

This is an old game, and one that Curt’s played many times before. Most women are instinctively drawn to damaged goods, they like to believe that they can fix their men.

But he sees not a hint of compassion in Khatijah’s eyes, only a cool whetting of interest.

‘You are… in a relationship?’

‘Not az such.’ The music shifts in tempo, and Curt pulls the Syrian woman close, teasing out of her a smirk. ‘She _broke_ my eart.’

‘You seem to be coping.’

‘Oh, I’m a very good acteur.’

‘And yet you allow yourself to grow troubled, at an event such as this?’

Curt leans down, far enough that he can smell the lavender water she’s soaked her scarfs in. ‘It’s just that you remind me of er.’

‘ _Ooh,_ very _nice_ _Curt,_ ’ comes Owen’s voice, sardonic in his left ear, ‘ _Tell me: what trashy romance novel did you pull that one out of?_ ’

‘Oh?’ says Khatijah, ‘How so?’

Curt, thrown off by Owen’s sudden involvement in the mission, steps away and bumps into the minister for reconciliation, who curses at him loudly. Khatijah draws him back, forcibly placing his hand at her waist.

‘Please, I’m really very interested. Talk to me about this mysterious woman of yours.’

‘Your fiancé’s staring at me. I think he would like to kill me.’

‘So let him stare.’ Khatijah removes her veil and drapes it over Curt’s shoulders, smoothing down his lapels. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Tall. Ratheur pretty. Dark air.’

‘And you were devastatingly in love with her, I’ll bet.’

‘Honestly?’ Khatijah nods. ‘I would ave died for er.’

‘ _Slow down there Carey Grant, you don’t want her swooning into your arms._ ’

‘Mm, I don’t think any of my men have ever been _that_ in love with me.’ They’ve managed to waltz to the far side of the patio, closer to Owen’s hiding place and further away from any prying eyes. ‘I don’t know what it feels like, to be wanted like that.’

It’s an invitation – one that Curt would be an idiot not to take.

‘I could show you,’ Khatijah looks at him confusedly, so he elaborates: ‘I could show you what it feels like.’

‘ _Wow. I think I just threw up a little._ ’

He ignores Owen and raises Khatijah’s hand to his mouth, kisses it in the deft, light way he’s learnt drives women crazy. And, if her slight gasp is anything to go off of, he’s not overestimated himself this time.

‘There’s a games room on the third floor,’ she murmurs, eyes still trained on her hand, Curt’s mouth, ‘Meet me there in fifteen minutes. Be sure that you are not followed.’

Khatijah slips her hand from his, curtsies low.

‘Monsieur Baudry.’

‘Mademoiselle.’

She scampers away, deeply flustered, and Curt – ever a showman – removes her veil from his shoulders and gives it a good, long sniff.

‘ _Blimey Curt, no wonder you get away with being such a pansy._ ’

Curt seeks out Owen – he’s by the bar, now – and tosses him a look.

‘ _Oh, I’m sorry, was that rude of me? You know she’s running off to father right now to dob on you._ ’

‘No, she’s not,’ says Curt, swiping a martini off of a passing tray, ‘Look at her.’

Owen does. What he sees is Khatijah bowing low to her father then, after a couple of harried greetings to his deputies of staff, gesturing off to the entrance hall and the stairway adjacent. Hashim Ben Yahia shakes his head – it’s not a _no_ sort of headshake, but a _yes, you can, but I’m your father and I’m annoyed_ sort of headshake – before returning to his conversation. Khatijah squeezes past them and opens the patio door, retreating inside. She makes it half way up the stairs before she turns and looks back at Curt, offering him a shy but heated smile, then disappears.

‘ _You yankee fuck_ ,’ says Owen, and there’s just a little bit of that old astonishment in his tone, ‘ _I’ll set up shop behind the rotunda. Try not to do anything rash._ ’

‘Don’t wait up for me, mom,’ Curt shoots back, and downs his martini, olive and all.

 

 

 

Three hours later, and he can hear Owen laughing at him as he scrambles down the drainpipe and falls flat on his ass into one of Ben Yahia’s rosebushes. He makes the dash across the lawn to the sound of guard dogs barking in the distance, and helps Owen to scoop his surveillance equipment into his rucksack to the sound of men shouting much closer by.

‘I take it your little date with the minister’s daughter didn’t go exactly according to plan?’

‘Well,’ says Curt, struggling to keep pace as Owen breaks into a run, ‘We felt each other up a little on the pool table, gave each other a hickey, then I revealed that _yes indeed, that is a gun in my pocket_ , and things sort of went down hill from there.’

A bullet whistles past Curt’s head and he veers off to one side, pulling Owen along behind him by the crook of his elbow.

‘She didn’t know?’

‘Oh, she had her suspicions. I don’t think she, uh, bought zee accent.’

They come to the barbed wire fence that runs the length of the compound. Owen tosses his rucksack over it and then launches himself into Curt’s arms.

‘ _Oof –_ Jesus, Owen, give a guy some warning!’

He’s still sore about the honeypot, Curt can tell. It’s why he makes sure to press his boot extra hard into Curt’s gammy shoulder as he boosts himself over the fence.

‘You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you’d just let me do the seducing.’

‘Oh, I think she was _pretty_ seduced – pass me your jacket.’

‘Feeling delicate, are we?’

Owen rolls his eyes and strips down to his dress shirt, which really shouldn’t be as distracting as it is considering that there are a bunch of hungry Alsatians snapping at their heels. He tosses the jacket over to Curt, who uses it to shield his hands from the wire as he grapples his way over, landing with a thud on well-kept grass of the minister’s private orchard.

‘That was a Cifonelli,’ Owen groans, snatching it back. Curt tries not to look at the interplay of muscles in his back as he pulls it back on – tries and fails. ‘So – you seduced her, did you? Was that before or after you got slapped?’

‘How did you know?’ Curt exclaims.

‘Your face is red.’

He reaches up and touches his cheek, which is still stinging, and makes a moue.

‘I really thought she was starting to like me.’

‘So what went wrong?’

Another bullet comes spinning out of the darkness, embedding itself in a poplar tree a few feet away.

‘She didn’t take too kindly to my threatening to –’ he retrieves his gun, loads it, ‘–shoot her in the knee if she didn’t give up her husband’s missile plans.’

Owen laughs again.

‘And to think, I thought you were such a ladies man.’

‘Yeah, well I couldn’t exactly blackmail her about the sex, considering we didn’t have any.’ Curt fires off a couple of rounds, hears the satisfying thump of one of Ben Yahia’s guards dropping to the ground with a shout. When he looks back, Owen is staring at him with some unnamable expression playing across his face.

‘What?’ he cries, annoyed.

Owen shakes his head like a dog trying to clear water out of its ears.

‘Nothing, uh – I parked the car behind the rainwater tanks. Thought we might need to make a quick exit.’

‘See? This is why you’re surveillance and I’m field.’

He gets up, then turns to drag Owen to his feet. Owen doesn’t let him go, though, gripping his arm tightly.

‘What?’ Curt repeats, although he’s worried now.

Owen’s staring, staring very hard, as he had that night in the Philippines when Curt had told him about his _predilections_. Then, all at once, it’s gone.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

As they break into a run once more, Owen glances at him, grinning.

‘How did she alert the guards?’

‘Huh?’

‘You were two floors up. I didn’t hear her scream.’

‘Oh. There was a button under the pool table. She pressed it when I dropped the accent.’

Owen shakes his head, an admiring sigh slipping from his lips. ‘What a woman.’

 

 

 

Later, as they’re speeding away from Damascus in Curt’s brand new Scaglietti Coup, Owen starts from where he has been falling asleep against the window, eyes wide.

‘You did – _get_ the plans, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ Owen’s jaw drops in horror, and this time it’s Curt’s time to laugh. ‘Yes, of course I did, you asshole. After she called the guards I told her it was useless, that even if they did manage to weasel a confession out of me, her fiancé would have seen her behavior at the party and put two and two together. A girl like that, alone in a room with a guy like me… The only way to get out alive would be to claim that she’d stumbled across me stealing the plans and been overpowered.’

‘She let you hit her over the head?’

‘Sure. Tiny tap at the base of her skull. Minimal pain, out like a light.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I wouldn’t feel so sorry for her. Something tells me that, having seen the light, she’ll come crawling over to the American embassy in a matter of days. She’s a smart woman. She’s probably stored up a lot of information in her years of holding court to the most dangerous men in the country.’

Owen chortles humorlessly and, at Owen’s questioning stare, raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s just that you sound so _cold_. I… I can’t imagine speaking about a woman, that I… Can’t imagine speaking about her like…’ he trails away, drumming his fingers on his knees. A moment later, he pipes up again, having successfully planned out what he is about to say. ‘Well, do you talk about the men you – you know… Do you talk about them like that?’

‘I’ve never been in love with one if that’s what you mean,’ he says (lies), ‘And frankly, that you’d admit to ever feeling that way about a mark is deeply, deeply concerning, Owen –’

‘No, that’s not what I meant, I –’ Owen grits his teeth, closes his eyes, ‘Never mind. I’m sorry I even asked.’

He fiddles around with the radio until he finds some station that’s reporting on the Soviet aid to Syria, then slips back into his seat with a huff, arms crossed. They don’t speak until they run out of gas somewhere near the border, and even then it’s just to decide who walks down the highway in search of a tollbooth. And for the first time, Curt is grateful for the silence.

 

**Calais: April, 1962**

His mark is a guy in his early forties, handsome, laidback. His name is David Kepler but Curt is seriously starting to doubt if that’s true. From across the bar, he watches as he performs a trick with a book of matches to the delight of his female companions, and sinks his nose into his drink sullenly. He’s been waiting here for at least an hour, and the mark isn’t showing any sign of leaving. Now he turns, and Curt can just make out the glimmer of his dog tags from beneath his shirt collar. He looks away quickly, trying to remain inconspicuous.

In the end, it had been easy to track him down. After Curt had remembered Owen mentioning a friend from the army, he’d had Barb do some research for him on the sly. She had managed to dredge up a list of members from Owen’s old regiment in Korea. There were three Davids on it. One of them was dead, and the other had such severe dementia that Curt couldn’t come within three feet of him without setting off a bout of virulent cursing. So this has to be the guy.

Looking at him, Curt supposes it makes sense. Owen would have been very young when he was posted to Korea – young and frightened. If a friend from that time approached him after a period of great trauma, it would only be natural for Owen to latch onto him, to trust him. And this Kepler guy is clearly a real charmer.

The woman on his arm laughs uproariously and Curt winces. He’s been on a steady diet of painkillers – to numb the ache in his stomach – and cheap bourbon – to numb the pain everywhere else, for at least a month now. The prospect of tracking down a Chimera agent excites him, but not enough to drag him out of his melancholy for long enough to do any real groundwork. This is his first time in the field since Kaliningrad, and he can only imagine what he must look like to an experienced agent.

He pushes his empty glass across the bar and signals for a refill. It’s at this moment that Kepler decides to step outside for a cigarette, even bumping into Curt and apologizing as he shoulders his way out of the crowded restaurant. Curt waits fifteen seconds and then turns, swiftly following him out into the courtyard. It’s _Lundi de Pâques_ and there are fireworks going off overhead. Curt shivers in the cold but does not stuff his hands in his pockets, does not let his guard down. Kepler has disappeared into the shadows. He squints around, shuffling nervously, trying to tamp down the urge to reach for his gun.

He begins to panic. What if Kepler knows? He’s out here, on his own, and he’s told nobody about the specifics of his plan. It’ll be a matter of weeks before they notice his absence, even longer before they begin to grow suspicious. Curt’s heard about people kept captive for years, put in pressure cells, sensory deprivation tanks. What it does to them. He can only imagine the lengths to which an organization like Chimera would go to break him, especially after he’s killed one of their most valuable agents.

Curt balks, and moves to head back into the restaurant –

‘Hey,’ a male voice, three feet behind him, ‘ _Parlez-vous anglais?_ ’

Kepler. Curt forces himself to smile and turns.

‘ _Oui. Oui, je parle._ ’

‘Oh thank god,’ Kepler smiles at him, visibly relieved, ‘They tell you everyone here speaks English but it’s not true. You’re American?’

‘Canadian,’ Curt lies.

‘Huh.’ Kepler seems to find this very interesting, nodding intently. ‘So I suppose your French is pretty good?’

‘Eh. _Comme ci, comme ça._ ’

Kepler laughs. ‘Look, do you have a light? Mine broke and I haven’t had a smoke all night – it’s Easter Monday, after all. Help a guy out? In Christ’s name, all that shit’

This is it. Curt reaches into his pocket and retrieves the zippo Barb had had specially modified for him, breathing a silent prayer of thanks. He glances over his shoulder and, when he is sure nobody’s watching, raises it to Kepler’s face. He flicks the sparkwheel, and the zippo immediately shoots forward a stream of fire that could rival that of a flame-thrower’s. Kepler cries out, clutching his face, and Curt wrestles him around the corner, slamming him up against an empty pile of wine barrels.

‘Where’s Dickey?’

Kepler looks like he’s going to be sick, head lolling uselessly. Curt shakes him.

‘Dickey Walsh, I know you know who I’m talking about.’

Kepler still isn’t responding, so he slaps him on the burnt side of his face. Kepler gasps in pain.

‘You’re working for Chimera, aren’t you? Deny it and you’ll be of no use to me, and,’ Curt leans in close, ‘you really, _really_ don’t want that.’

‘Who are you?’ Kepler hisses from between his teeth.

‘Who I am doesn’t matter. What does matter is Dickey Walsh.’

It had been simple, when Curt had really put his mind to it. Back in ’56, he remembered that Owen had been unusually tetchy about his work with MI6. The year previously, his handler had been fired due to some violation of employee conduct. That had sounded off to Curt, but he’d been so blissfully in love at the time that he hadn’t given it a second thought. People don’t just get fired from Military Intelligence. They get put in a dark cell several miles underground and jabbed with a cattle prod until they give up the names of their conspirators.

Dickey Walsh wasn’t fired. Dickey Walsh went MIA.

So now Curt’s here, on the barest sliver of a hunch, with the barrel of Owen’s luger pressed hard into Kepler’s ribs (he did get it back, in the end). Kepler’s trying embarrassedly to staunch the tears that have sprung into his eyes.

‘Look, I don’t know where Dickey is,’ he sniffles, ‘Last time he spoke to me was back in ’57, before that cock up in Kaliningrad, you know, in the old –’

‘Weapons and munitions factory, I _do_ know _._ Get to the point.’

‘Last I heard, he was dealing stolen art in Scotland. There’s a family castle there, been abandoned for years, but they’d had calls about people breaking in so he thought, _why not_. It was funny at the time, you know, because he's the leader of a global criminal organi—’ Kepler cries out again as Curt hikes the gun up against his sternum, ‘Please! Please, I’m just a recruitment officer! I don’t know anything!’

‘You trained Owen Carvour?’

‘That fuck up? Sure, I trained him. Couldn’t keep himself alive long enough to make it through the evaluation process.’

‘When?’

‘What?’

‘When did you recruit him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I –’ Kepler stops, blinking at him with his remaining good eye. ‘Why are you so interested?’ he asks, and – shit, there’s recognition in his gaze. Curt decides to hurry things along, reaching up and pressing the barrel of the luger to Kepler’s temple.

‘Where’s the castle?’

‘Uh – uh – the Isle of Skye! Off the Isle of Skye, near Trottermish. Huge Tudor castle with a yellow flags on the battlements, you can’t miss it!’

‘ _Merci beaucoup,_ ’ Curt says, and pistol-whip’s the Englishman across the knees. He topples to the ground, cursing. Curt begins to stride away.

‘I know who you are!’ He stops. Kepler is trying to drag himself to his feet, hoisting himself up on a wine barrel. ‘I know who you are and he’ll stop you!’

Curt inclines his head a little, just so he’s able to make out Kepler’s wretched grin.

‘Dickey. He knows all about Carvour’s little fling with the great Curt Mega. You think he won’t use that against you? Jesus Christ, you must be fucking delusional.’ Kepler laughs at him and it’s a sick, rasping sound. ‘You wanted to know, didn’t you? When we recruited him… ’54, Mega. Before you even met. ’54. Now let that sink in, and next time you think about your little _boyfriend_ do it with the knowledge that he was lying to you, just like he would’ve lied to any other mark.’ He stops laughing and stares at Curt, smile fading. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘Yeah.’ Curt raises the pistol, and he sees the fear come into Kepler’s eyes. ‘Happy Easter.’

He pulls the trigger and Kepler’s body slumps to the ground, lifeless. He wrings his hand out, still not used to the recoil on the luger, and gives the corpse a good, long look. Then he grits his teeth and spits.

‘We met in ’53,’ he mutters, and jumps the courtyard wall before any curious partygoers can come outside to see about the racket.

 

 

 

**West Berlin: May, 1955**

After the success in Damascus, MI6 furnishes them with a double suite at a nice little hotel in Friedenau and tells them to await instruction from the CIA. It’s what Curt’s been referring to – quietly, in his head – as a hostage swap. Cynthia’s lent out her boy and he’s proved his uses, so now it’s their turn. Allied occupation has ended and the city is a flurry with soldiers, many of whom appear to recognize Owen. Curt wants to ask why – is burning to ask why – but restrains himself, pressing his fingernails deep into the palms of his hands.

He sees Barb for the first time in what feels like forever, at a bar downtown. She’s struggling to lift a _bierstiefel_ of cider when he finds her, and he spends a good two minutes or so watching amusedly before it occurs to him to help. She tells him that things at the agency have changed since he left, that Cynthia’s on the fast track to replacing Dulles as chief director and that they’re even considering giving Barb her own lab.

‘Women have got a rosy future in espionage,’ she says, in that self-satisfied way that says she both knows this to be true and knows that Curt knows it too. They spend an hour catching up, during which Curt has to implore her several times to keep her hands to herself as she gets steadily more and more drunk. Then Owen shows up, and suddenly all Curt wants to do is go back to the hotel.

He’s mostly polite, as it happens, taking Barb’s bad impersonations of his accent in stride, engaging with her interestedly on matters of foreign policy. It’s only when he finally turns his gaze to Curt that his expression hardens, smile shrinking back a couple of notches.

‘Nightlife here is wild,’ he says, perfectly neutral.

‘Mm,’ Curt replies, very articulately, into his glass.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Enough.’

‘But it’s not really in keeping with your tastes though, is it?’

Curt stiffens. Distantly, he hears Barb say, ‘What’s the matter? What’s going on?’ although she’s not really paying any attention. Owen leans in close. He’s wearing the bad cologne he bought at the airport, the stuff Curt said smelt like a funeral parlor.

‘It’s a pity. Were it not for the wall, you could be in Nollendorfplatz right now.’

And that’s the last straw. Curt jumps to his feet and stalks from the bar, kicking the door shut behind him. Barb’s pleas for him to come back fall on deaf ears, and when he rounds the corner her sees her through the window, sitting back down, Owen’s sympathetic hand stroking her back.

It’s all this waiting that’s got him so keyed up. It would be simpler if Owen just apologized for implying… whatever he’d been implying about him that night on the highway, but Curt gets the impression that Owen wants _him_ to apologize instead. So they continue to turn ever on and on in this vicious circle, ignoring each other, sniping at each other, descending into an argument, and then starting all over again. And it endures for another week because neither of them is man enough to acknowledge it.

It ends, of course, when Curt hits him. He’s always been the aggressor when it comes to grilling marks – Owen, the placater, the comforter – and his partner knows the ease with which he can be incited to violence. The victory in Owen’s eyes is palpable even as crowds him up against the wall, a fist wrapped around his dog-tags – _since when has Owen had dog-tags?_ – and another pinning his arm behind his back.

‘I think,’ Owen says, and uses his free hand to wipe the sheen of blood from his lip (it’s deeply and appallingly erotic, and Curt feels his grip slip even as he forces himself to scowl, to be the man), ‘We ought to spend some time apart.’

‘Fine,’ Curt says, releasing him, and he feels the indents the ball chain has left against his fingers. It occurs to him now how little he knows about Owen, as his partner shrugs on his jacket and slicks back his hair. They’ve memorized each other’s mannerisms, gotten to know the other man’s sleeping patterns, alcohol tolerances, tastes in – fucking _tie knots._ There was once a time when Owen could have put on a funny accent, worn a different hat, and Curt would have been hopeless to find him. Now he can point him out in a crowd of thousands.

But they don’t _know_ each other, and that’s why Curt doesn’t think to knock when he comes to Owen’s suite that night to apologize, and why he doesn’t think anything is amiss when he sees the clothes piled haphazardly on the chair by the door, or that there’s a butted Sobranie cigarette smoking softly in the ashtray in the kitchen.

It only clicks when he rounds the corner and sees Owen fucking some girl’s brains out over the back of the chaise lounge. Oh yeah. Then it clicks.

There is a moment (one that Curt will play out in his head for days to come), where Owen spots him, freezes, but does not make any attempt to move. Instead he only smiles and, after a moment of deliberation, returns to the matter at hand. The girl hisses something in protest – ‘ _Sagen sie ihm weg zu gehen,_ Owen!’ – and he only shakes his head, eyes still trained on Curt.

‘He’ll leave when he’s ready, _mein liebling_.’

A few moments later, the girl must do something amazing because he doubles over, moaning loudly, and _that’s_ when Curt decides to take his leave, staggering blindly out of the dimly lit suite and into the fluorescent hell of the corridor.

He’s hard, which isn’t really a surprise, but he still berates himself for it. He staunchly refuses to relieve himself, only rests against the cool ochre wall until he feels that he can walk properly again, and limps back to his own room. He hears a thump come Owen’s as he’s fumbling with the keys, and then a cry – ‘ _Scheiße, Owen, härter!_ ’ – followed by a long groan of release.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he mutters, and tries to be fondly annoyed, tries to be disappointed in the way any friend would be disappointed, but finds only a hot, seething jealousy, so solid and alive that it’s like an organ threatening to burst inside of him.

_To be in Owen Carvour’s arms._

_To be Owen Carvour’s girl._

That night, he lies awake and he tries to ignore the soft, post-coital laughter he can hear taunting him through the hotel’s thin walls. The girl’s name is Leisel, he learns, and she’s a barmaid at the place he and Barb met up in. He spends an hour committing these details to memory and for once it’s not because she’s a mark he’s been assigned to study, but because he loathes her, deeply.

He shouldn’t loathe her. It’s irrational of him and there’s no reason behind it. She speaks excessively of Owen’s friend from his army days, a man named David, whom they met through earlier that evening. It’s clear that David was the one she really wanted, and that she had settled for Owen because she had nothing better to do that night and she didn’t like the idea of being alone in a neighborhood full of drunken GIs. (The notion of anyone _settling_ for Owen astounds Curt).

He spends another hour turning over the idea of Owen as a soldier in his mind. What war was it? Did Owen do any actual fighting, or was he simply Intelligence? Did Owen miss being in the war? Was this a demotion for him?

Leisel leaves, eventually. Owen must be out cold because Curt does not hear him kiss her nor offer her a goodbye before the door closes. He can console himself with that, at least. There will be no breakfast of champions for the Englishman tomorrow.

 

 

 

The next day, he rises and he dresses with nobody particular in mind. He does his hair in the bathroom mirror in a style that takes minimal upkeep, just so he won’t have to think about it throughout the course of the day. He selects his tie and knots it in a way that he knows his partner will not comment on, will not find at all erroneous.

They don’t speak much on the way to the meeting with Curt’s people. Owen is polite to him in the same way that he is polite to Barb, polite to Cynthia, although something about his expression suggests that he wants Curt to comment on what happened last night.

Curt doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

**The Hebrides: May, 1962**

‘ _Sixty seconds till we hit the drop zone, sir_.’

‘Affirmative, over.’

He rises from his seat and double checks his parachute. It occurs to him that the first time he did this, he had somebody to do that for him. There’s a loud, hydraulic clacking sound as the hangar door slides open. Curt looks down and is immediately struck by a strong feeling of vertigo. He grips the handrail as thin stratus clouds whip past below; beneath them, the ocean is grey and roiling, isolated specs of green the only indicator that Curt will not be _swimming_ to Scotland.

‘ _You have your coordinates?_ ’

‘I do, over.’

Curt puts on his visor and activates the map feature. The world flickers green for a moment, and then a small-scale, transparent map dominates his vision. He blinks forcefully, and turns on his tracking beacon. Once again, he makes a note to thank Barb.

‘ _Thirty seconds till we hit the drop zone._ ’

He approaches the door and lets the wind numb his face, widens his stance in preparation for the jump. In the distance, he can just see Dickey Walsh’s castle coming into view.

‘ _Lo and behold,_ ’ hums the pilot, more to himself than to Curt. Curt smiles. He likes the guy. He’s ex air force and, when Curt had explained his plight in none too vague terms, he’d been more than sympathetic.

Curt’s smile fades. If he’s fucked up, if he’s walked into a trap or, worse, if he’s just plain wrong, he’s never going to be allowed to return to America. And the last thing he wants to do is spend the rest of his life here, where every word, every turn of phrase, is just a constant reminder of Owen.

‘ _Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven…_ ’

Curt checks his chute one last time, and unlatches himself from the zip-line running down the length of the hangar.

‘ _Six, five, four…_ ’

He closes his eyes and, as always, pictures the things that calm him the most. The beach at his mother’s house in Guadeloupe. His home in Washington, sparsely but lovingly decorated. A cabin on a ship, also sparse, Cynthia’s voice warm in his ear. A bed, a laugh, a pair of lips pressed to the inside of his wrist. Dark eyes, sad mouth.

He flexes his fingers. He topples forward.

 

 

 

Walsh is waiting for him when he arrives, soaking wet and dragging himself up onto the shore.

‘Mistime the jump?’ Walsh’s voice is light and airy from his position at the edge of a small cliff, hands clasped loosely behind his back. On either side of him is a row of black-clad guards, their rifles trained on Curt. Curt, his bones still ringing from the impact, lets his face flop into the sand.

‘Pull him up,’ he hears Walsh murmur to one of the men, and immediately rises. Walsh grins at him like some sort of hungry jungle animal. He’s a little, pale-haired guy, with sallow skin and large, sleepy eyes. Curt finds that he resents his clothes more than anything – an Arctic windcheater, a cable knit sweater – as he trudges his way up to the cliff.

‘I must admit, I find you very impressive,’ this he says to Curt as they walk along the well-manicured lawn leading up to the castle. ‘When I found out that you’d killed Mister Kepler, I was prepared for you to be stupid. He taunted you, didn’t he – before you shot him?’

Curt doesn’t say anything, preoccupied as he is with rolling up his chute. He pushes his visor back into his hair, being careful not to turn off the tracker. 

‘Mm. Kepler never had much in the way of survival instincts. Not like your Owen.’ Walsh glances at him glumly. ‘Two broken legs and a fractured spine. That’s got to hurt.’

 _Two for one,_ Owen thinks, and is immediately filled with guilt.

‘Yes, when Kepler found him, he was in quite a state. We were working in adjunct with the Russians at the time, and when I heard word that KGB had managed to root out a deep cover MI6 agent, I began to suspect…’ He pauses, drawing to a halt, as do the armed guards behind him. ‘It was cruel what you did, Curt. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you that before. I don’t think anyone has. Leaving your friend like that… but he was – _more_ than a friend, wasn’t he?’ There’s a muscle working in Curt’s jaw. Walsh sees it and laughs. ‘Don’t worry, Agent Mega. I’m not going to go running to Cynthia. I never had a particular fondness for Owen in _that_ department but I can understand perfectly what one might find attractive about him. He loved you too, you know.’

Curt flinches, and a slow smile spreads across Walsh’s face.

‘Ah. There it is – the humanity. But nevertheless, I still find you quite impressive.’ They begin to walk again. The castle is coming into view now, squat and dark and imperious. ‘Yes, Owen was quite distressed when we found him. He seemed to be under the impression that you had perished in the explosion. It took quite a lot of work to convince him that you’d returned to America without him, _betrayed_ him, prized your life above his own.’

‘Spread any other lies while you were at it?’

‘Just that you wouldn’t come back for him, even if you did know. And that he ought to make do with what he had left.’

‘What he had being the world’s largest, multinational criminal organization?’

‘We’re no more criminal than _your_ agency, Curt. I would’ve thought meddling in other counties’ business would seem quite common place to you, as a gun toting American.’

‘Like you don’t carry a gun.’

‘I don’t.’ Walsh gestures behind him. ‘I have other people to do that for me.’

They’ve reached the front steps to a small watchtower now. At their base is a lace iron table, equipped with two chairs and a tray of snacks.

 _Nibbles,_ Curt thinks, erroneously. _Owen would call them nibbles._ Even as he scolds himself for this, his eyes are drawn to another item. A nine-millimeter Browning hi-power pistol, lying next to the lemonade jug. It’s achingly familiar, although it’s not until he notices the nick on its handgrip that he can place where he’s seen it before.

‘Please take a seat,’ says Walsh.

‘If it’s the same with you, I’d rather remain standing,’ Curt replies, and all traces of bonhomie vanish from Walsh’s expression. He picks up the browning and strokes a hand along the barrel, petting it thoughtfully as he sits down in the seat opposite Curt.

‘Please give me your gun,’ he says. The tone and inflection is exactly the same as when he asked Curt to take a seat.

Curt must pause a little too long because the guard nearest to him jostles his rifle, jabbing it into Curt’s spine. Curt complies after that, in no mood to be killed when all of his burning questions are about to be answered. He places the luger on the table and stiffens when Walsh picks it up, weighing it against the browning.

‘Hmm. Similar heft to both of them. The luger is in better keeping, but that’s unsurprising. More accurate, too, but the browning allows for larger caliber so that has to count for something.’ Walsh meets his gaze calmly. ‘You know who this belongs to, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d like it back?’

Curt swallows dryly.

‘Yes.’

‘Then sit.’ Walsh’s eyes are pale like blown out lightbulbs. They reflect no emotion. ‘Please, for my pleasure. I will not ask you again.’

Curt sits. The chair’s a child’s thing, too small for either of them, really, and he feels ridiculous.

‘You can go,’ Walsh says to the guards, and they do, marching away in single file. One remains until Curt hands him his chute, then jogs to catch up with them. Walsh watches him disappear behind the watchtower with a chuckle.

‘I had them brought here from the Kolyma, round about the same time I took in your friend Owen. What they witnessed there must have been terrible… I can only imagine…’ he shakes his head, ‘Von Nazi always said that I was building my empire on the backs of criminals. But I find that criminals are more naturally inclined to loyalty, don’t you find? More so than soldiers.’

‘Von Nazi,’ Curt repeats, frowning.

‘Oh yes. I knew the Little Führer when he was still quite young. A boy, really. That was before Chimera truly became Chimera.’ Walsh lowers both pistols and slides them across the table to Curt. ‘Before I retired,’ he adds with a wink.

‘You’re not working for the Nazis,’ Curt says, flatly.

‘We are quick, aren’t we?’

‘Well, I sort of figured. You know, when you didn’t have me shot on sight.’

‘I could have been Chimera, Curt, and I still wouldn’t have shot you. I don’t believe in it.’

‘Right, because you’re a pacifist.’

‘I didn’t say that. I find guns… mm… impersonal. I like to make my victims suffer before they die. In that way, you and I speak the same language, don’t we?’

‘I was a different person then.’

‘I think we both know that’s a lie, Curt, but I’ll call your bluff.’ Walsh nods towards the pistols. ‘Go on. Prove me wrong.’

Curt doesn’t move. For the first time since he arrived here, he’s at a loss for what to do.

‘I know which one I’d choose,’ Walsh taps the browning with one well-manicured nail, ‘This may not be the superior weapon, but it’s not superiority we’re talking about here, is it, Curt? This weapon is a symbol. Everything you’ve loved, everything you’ve lost. Think of your most treasured moment with Owen –’ (a week after Warsaw, physical therapy; Owen had gripped him by the waist as he walked the length of the pool, pressed his mouth to his ear and told him that he loved him), ‘– and put it in the barrel of this gun. Use it to destroy your enemies. Do unto them as they did unto you. Take away what they cherish most in the world.’

Curt feels his fingers twitch. It’s a tempting thought.

‘Or, perhaps, you want to leave those memories untarnished. I wouldn’t blame you.’ Walsh leans back and reaches for a canapé. He watches while Curt considers, and licks a smudge of polenta from his thumb.

‘Is there a second option?’

Walsh nods, greatly pleased, and taps the luger. ‘This. A beautiful weapon; sleek, refined, lovingly crafted. A Nazi’s gun, of course, but we shan’t hold that against our dear young agent. He had a mantle to uphold, after all,’ he grins again, amused. ‘ _Mister Deadliest Man_ ,’ he murmurs, more to himself than to Curt.

‘Is there any heavy-handed symbolism behind _this_ choice?’ Curt asks, unimpressed.

‘No. Well, there is. If you want there to be… Take this gun, and you’ll be taking up a lifetime of pain, of betrayal. You will be directly undermining the man who caused you so much undue suffering. The man who killed your informant. The man who threatened our dear Miss Slozhno, whom I believe we hold as a dear and mutual acquaintance.’

Curt blinks, thrown, then remembers. _Working in adjunct with the Russians._ He wonders how old Tatiana was when she met Walsh. Can’t have been too old. He wonders if she’s forgotten it, or repressed it. She’s certainly better at compartmentalizing things than he is.

Walsh is still droning on as if he has all the time in the world. ‘There are certain risks that come with this gun but, then, those same risks apply to the browning also. Holding onto the past can be a dangerous thing, Curt. But I’d say that this is a more productive way of doing it.’

‘You want me to pick up the luger.’

‘It’s your choice.’

‘ _Why?_ ’

Walsh raises his pale eyebrows.

‘Tetchy, are we?’ When Curt doesn’t answer, he sighs, shaking his head minutely. He closes his eyes. ‘I want you to come to work for me, here.’

Curt scoffs, crossing his arms.

‘Have I said something amusing?’

‘You killed my boyfriend!’

‘ _I_ didn’t kill him. I hadn’t spoken to him for months. In fact, I was very saddened to hear of his death. Killing him, no. That you did all on your own, I’m afraid.’

Curt jumps to his feet, the pistols and the chinaware clattering as he knocks the table.

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ he shouts.

Walsh spreads his hands. ‘I’m just a humble man with a humble plan, Curt.’

‘Oh yeah? And what’s that?’

‘The same as it was when I betrayed MI6. World peace.’

‘Right. Even if you have to kill every single dissenter to achieve it.’

‘We _do_ speak the same language!’

Curt bites his lip to keep from saying something he might regret. Walsh prowls to his feet, excited now. He thinks he’s got him.

‘What has the agency ever done for you, Curt? Has it conquered your fear of death? Has it instilled in you that long sought after confidence? No. No, instead it’s isolated you from your family, it’s driven you to drink, and it’s killed your lover.’

‘I thought I did that.’

‘Well, at least you’re admitting it.’ Walsh grips him gently by the arms. ‘Face facts, Curt. You’re at the end of your rope here. You refuse, and I’ll have to kill you. You find some way to escape, and what are you returning to? A lonely apartment in Washington? A life spent comparing any potential partners to _him?_ ’ Curt looks away. There's a glimmer of truth in it, he knows. Walsh tightens his grip. 'Would it really be so bad? It's not Chimera, if that's what you're thinking. Chimera is a madman's play thing. _This_ is realistic. But don't let that dissuade you: we've still got the fast cars, the cool gadgets, the pretty girls. At least, when they’re required, that is. Not so different from the CIA, when you get down to it.’

There’s a long silence. Then Curt reaches forward, and picks up the pistols.

‘These are my options?’ he asks.

Walsh is delighted. ‘I’m afraid so.’

Curt turns and looks out at the ocean, frowning slightly. ‘You know, it’s funny.’

Without pause, he empties both the cartridges and tosses them across the lawn. Walsh follows their arc, deeply confused, so he misses it when Curt bends down and reaches for his ankle holster. By the time Walsh looks back, he’s straightened up and has the berretta trained on him.

Walsh is dumbfounded. ‘What are you doing?’

Curt smiles widely. ‘You villains, you’re so close-minded.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Keeping one hand on the berretta, Curt reaches up and presses his visor. It emits a low whir. A few moments later, there comes the faint but distinct sound of helicopters approaching in the distance.

The horror is dawning across Walsh’s face and Curt revels in it happily. He lowers his hand.

‘There’s always a third option.’

 

 

 

'Congratulations,' Cynthia drawls, and tosses him his licensed beretta, rather than the piece of shit he was using in Scotland. Curt catches it, fumbles when he realises that the safety isn't on, and quickly amends this. They're at the American embassy (Curt's life appears to be becoming a string of these), where the CIA has apparently set up shop. Cynthia collapses behind her desk, massaging her scalp. Tatiana, standing silently in the corner, meets Curt's eye and smiles supportively. 

'I take it I'm being reinstated?' 

Cynthia lets out a low groan. 

'Is that a yes or a no?' 

She looks up at him and glares. 'It's whatever I fucking want it to be until I decide you're off probation. So don't try anything funny like you did in Calais.' 

'At least I reported in once I knew I was onto something,' Curt says, suppressing a smile. Cynthia's speaking at a rate of one-curse-per-sentence, which means that she's only pretending to be angry with him. Tatiana approaches and whispers something in her ear. Cynthia nods and hands her a folder, which Tatiana begins flicking through leisurely. 

'You two are...' Curt waggles a finger between the two of them, 'working together now?' 

'Just until Tati here gets back on her feet.'

'Christ, you sounded so much like my mother just then,' Curt shudders. Cynthia doesn't react to that. Tatiana only shakes her head a little as she reads. 'Is... Walsh talking yet?' 

'Not yet. He will though, and if he's difficult...' Cynthia blows a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air, 'we'll just fucking waterboard him or something.' 

'Yeah,' Curt agrees enthusiastically, 'Maybe Barb's go some spiky shit back at the lab that we can shove up his ass.' Cynthia gives him her most deadpan stare and he backs down. 'Sorry. I just really hate the guy. Didn't even have the decency to be a proper villain, y'know.'

'Oh, I know.'

They lapse back into silence. Tatiana finishes looking over the file and nods, tucking it under her arm. She passes Curt on her way out the door and catches him by the arm. 

'You want to grab lunch at two?' 

'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' he says, and kisses her on the cheek. She snorts and disappears. When he turns back, Cynthia is staring at him with a pensive expression. 

'What?' he demands, throwing his arms wide. Cynthia shakes her head. 

'Nothing. Nothing.' She uses her cigarette to point to the way Tatiana left. 'She's pretty cute, isn't she? For a commie.'

'Sure,' he says dispassionately, and Cynthia smiles like she's won something.  _Oh. Oh no._  

'Cynthia,' he begins raising his hands, 'I know what you're thinking and -'

'It's alright Curt, I know.' 

'No, it's not, it's - Owen and I -'

'Curt,' she's still smiling, 'I  _know._ ' 

_Oh._

'Oh.' Curt shuffles about, flushing profusely. When he manages to look at her again, she's not smiling anymore, but there's a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. 'For how long?' 

'Jesus Christ, Curt,' she exclaims, 'You couldn't go five minutes without talking about the guy. D'you think I'm fucking dumb or something?' 

'No! No, I -'

'Get the fuck out of my office,' she snaps. 

And Curt doesn't need to be told twice. 

 

 

 

**Warsaw: June, 1955**

 

It happens so suddenly that Curt’s first thought is that he’s been punched. One moment, he is patrolling a long strip of empty corridor, gun in hand, and the next minute he’s lying on his side choking for air.

He hasn’t been punched. This he knows. If he had, Owen would have reported hostile movement within the building several minutes ago, his voice calm and methodical in Curt’s ear. Hesitantly, he attempts to move his legs, but finds that he can’t. Now he begins to panic.

There’s something caked in his eyes, keeping them shut. That’s a matter of urgent importance, somehow. He reaches up with what appears to be his only functioning limb at this present moment and tries to wipe it off. His fingers come away warm and sticky with blood.

‘Fuck,’ he croaks, and gets a mouthful of dirt for his troubles.

 _Explosion_. The word rings solemn and true in Curt’s mind. _I’ve been caught in an explosion._

There’s a crackle in his ear, followed by some disjointed shouting.

‘ _Curt! C— What’s going o—? Can you –_ oh fuck.’

He can’t see. His vision is white with ash and blood and god know’s what else. Maybe he’s even been blinded.

‘Owen,’ he says, _tries_ to say, but can’t because he doesn’t have enough saliva in his mouth to spit away the dirt. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and against all of his training, he begins to suck in big, terrified gulps of air through his nose, but that’s blocked too, of course it’s _blocked, god damn it_ –

Owen’s left the surveillance van. He’s seen the rubble and he’s panicking, he’s bellowing, he’s giving away their position.

‘ _Curt, can you hear me? Curt, please, I need you t— position, C— I nee—_ ’

Curt tries to breath _out_ , to push the dirt from his nostrils, and feels his lungs burn and constrict. _No no no no no no no no,_ he thinks, and then –

 _I don’t want to die like this_. The thought comes to him in such a horrible rush of emotion and clarity that he wishes he still had the capacity to weep. This is a slow and frightening death and he does not want to die like this. He’d always imagined that if he died, it’d be a stray bullet, a snapped neck, something quick, something painless, something in which he didn’t have the time to regret all the things he hadn’t –

He blacks out. And that’s just so typical of him.

 

 

 

He wakes up what seems like only seconds later (although they later inform him it was fifteen minutes) with somebody’s fingers in his mouth, forcing his airway open. There’s a pair of lips clamped over his and suddenly there’s air – _air_ , precious, wondrous air! He bucks and gasps and immediately chokes, trying to roll away. It’s then that he becomes aware of an intense pain in his right leg that causes his whole body to freeze up in agony, his jaw clamping shut in a silent scream.

‘Hey, hey, come on,’ somebody is clutching his head in his hands, squeezing his cheeks gently, ‘Don’t do that. Don’t do that or you’ll bite your tongue off.’

Curt obeys, tries to open his eyes. Whoever’s holding him – _it’s Owen,_ he tells himself, but it can’t be, Owen isn’t capable of this kind of tenderness – stifles a sob, a terrified sob, and smooths his hand over that sticky wetness on his brow.

‘ _God_. Okay, um. You’re going to have to tell me how to help you here, love, because –’ a lost noise, a child’s noise, low in the throat, ‘– _nobody_ is coming to help us and – and I don’t think we have much _time_.’

Curt forces himself to open his eyes and, oh, would you look at that, it _is_ Owen. Tall, dark-haired, rather pretty Owen who broke his heart. Curt grins, reaches up to touch his face, and is aware on some other plane that he misses by a mile, and on another that his hand is soaked with blood.

‘Just like the Luzon,’ he rasps, and Owen’s face sort of crumples.

‘Yes,’ he breathes, ‘Yes, just like Luzon. Now, Curt –’

‘My leg. Broken, I think. But I can still feel my toes.’

‘ _Okay_.’

He feels Owen dig his arm into the rubble beneath Curt’s back, feels a hand grip his hip and force him up, up and out. There is a moment in which Curt feels as if he is going to pass out again from the pain, but it passes, mercifully. It’s dark and cold and he’s shivering violently, but he still manages to grin again, because he never stopped grinning in the first place and thinks that his teeth might be set like this now. He leans up and presses his face into that place on Owen’s throat, just because he can, and lets himself be lifted. A moment of silence passes. There are sirens approaching in the distance – the Citizen’s Militia coming to kill them both, no doubt – and Curt can feel himself losing consciousness again.

A piece of rubble gives way beneath Owen’s foot and he slides the distance from the doorway to the footpath, staggers out into the road, and slumps against the side of the van. All of this he does without dropping Curt, which Curt can’t help but chuckle about.

‘Is this you… sweeping me off my feet, Agent Carvour?’ he asks.

And Owen laughs, miserably.

 

 

 

Severe trauma to the head. Comminuted fractures in the leg and arm. Several broken ribs and, to top it off, a punctured lung. Cynthia’s voice is thick with emotion when the agency doctor props him up on his pillow and puts the phone to his ear. He’s in a first class cabin on a cruise-liner bound for Sweden, and he’s pumped full of so much methaqualone that he can barely process what she is saying, much less hold a civil conversation. Somehow, he suspects that this might be intentional, because it’s the only time Cynthia’s been anything close to affectionate with him and, incidentally, it’s also the only time in her life she’s had the plausible deniability to do so.

‘ _Rest up, and make sure Owen rests up too. Please don’t fucking die_.’ These words he remembers the most clearly. These have also, incidentally, become his three primary objectives in life.

_Two primary objectives._

Owen’s not been to see him since they boarded the boat. Curt can remember the night of the explosion only in flashes. Owen splinting his leg haphazardly in the back of the van; those sirens, so close it was as if they were on top of them; a car chase, although – that can’t be right, they were so close to the outskirts of the city. The not knowing is starting to get to him, these patches in his memory that he cannot fill, try as he might.

The doctor begs him to remain in bed, at least until the preliminary cast can be replaced with a proper, fiberglass one, but Curt does not listen.

Owen’s cabin is on the opposite side of the ship to his, which means that he draws a lot of concerned glances from the baggage attendants and crew he passes on his way there. He does not pass any guests. He suspects that the CIA had the whole lower deck cordoned off in preparation for his arrival. He knocks, and receives no reply, and lingers for a moment because he isn’t looking to repeat what happened in Berlin. But Owen’s cabin is quiet but for the sound of gently creaking floorboards, and it’s not as if he’d be allowed to go up top in search of a quick lay anyway.

When he enters the cabin, he’s struck by the lavishness of it all. Curt’s room had, for all intents and purposes, been a hospital room, bright and sparsely decorated, but this is like something out of a pirate story. He breathes in the smell of varnish and fabric softener, and waits for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

What he sees is Owen, fast asleep in a huge double bed, an arm thrown haphazardly over his eyes in order to protect them from the sunlight that is spilling in through the blinds. Curt uses his crutches to propel himself across the carpet, careful to make as minimal noise as possible, and collapses into the chair beside him. Of course, he’s hardly as stealthy as he believes himself to be, and Owen stirs, arm flopping down to tug at his dog tags. He cracks open an eye and, in the sleep-hoarse voice that is just another one of the thousands of things Curt finds extremely, unfairly attractive about him, says, ‘Curt?’

‘Well,’ Curt replies, trying for lightness, ‘This _is_ quite the role reversal, isn’t it?’

‘Curt,’ Owen repeats, louder now, propping himself up on his elbows, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I –’ before Curt can answer, Owen sees his cast and his eyes widen.

‘Your – your _leg,_ Curt, your _lungs_ you – you _can’t_ be here!’

‘Okay, first all, it’s my _lung._ Noun, singular, present tense. Second of all, nobody tells me what to do –’

‘Curt.’

‘– and third of all, you’ve never had a problem with me throwing myself into dangerous situations before. At least here I’m not going to get blown to pieces or riddled with holes.’

‘That was different, this is –’ Owen reaches up and wipes the sleep from his eyes, shaking his head. ‘Those things weren’t my fault,’ he says, quietly, and turns away.

Curt stares. He has to stare, because he’s dumfounded. These are not words that have ever come out of Owen’s mouth. Usually, these are the words that come out of _his_ mouth. He reaches forward and slaps the Englishman on the shoulder.

‘Well shit, Owen, you don’t have to go getting all mushy on me.’

Owen glances at him, affronted.

‘I searched through a pile of rubble for you.’

‘And _there’s_ the old egotism. I was worried for a second there. Thought we’d left you behind in Poland.’

‘Poland,’ Owen grumbles, ‘Don’t talk to me about Poland.’

Curt’s smile fades.

‘WarPac.’

‘It was in another building.’

‘Yes, I gathered that from the derelict warehouse you had me search.’ Owen flops back down onto the mattress, groaning. ‘Sorry. Touchy subject.’

‘I should have ran an explosive’s scan.’

‘You wouldn’t have found anything,' Owen opens his mouth to argue, 'Oh, come on, Owen. You know as well as I do the Russians stopped using standard explosives years ago. It was probably a time bomb – gelignite or semtex, I’m guessing, considering that your heat and motion sensors didn’t pick up on anything.’ Curt sighs, smiles. ‘They’re not stupid.’

‘I shouldn’t have let you go in alone. It was a hostile environment, even if they hadn’t detonated, if something had happened to me or – or you’d been led astray–’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t.’ Curt slaps him again, and props his cast up on the bed. ‘If anything, you should have hightailed it out of there the moment you heard the blast. Because of me, we might have been rotting in a Polish jail cell right now.’

‘Don’t.’ Owen grabs him by his shirtfront and pulls him close. His tone is deadly. ‘Don’t make jokes about that. I would have _died_ for you.’

Curt reaches up and claps Owen’s hands in his own, and Owen sucks in a sharp breath. He startles, but he doesn’t pull away. He smells good and clean; there’s no cologne, no faint whiff of gunpowder.

‘You shouldn’t have come back for me,’ Curt murmurs, once he is certain that it is safe, that Owen won’t blow up at him again.

‘Curt –’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ he repeats, because the only thing Curt can think of that’s worse than dying is Owen dying with him.

(There will come a time, many years later, when the third option becomes devastatingly apparent to Curt. But this is not that time).

Owen’s thoughts are clearly running along the same line as his own because he looks horribly, inconsolably torn. It’s a look Curt’s seen on his own face many times before. The overwhelming desire to _explain_ without the proper means to do so. Of not _knowing_ what it is you _want_ to explain.

Thankfully, Owen is Owen and one of the side effects of being Owen is being smart and being tactile, so he says nothing and instead settles for securing his hold on Curt’s shirt, pulling him down onto the bed, and crashing their lips together.

Before Owen opens his mouth, before he slicks their tongues together and it becomes a _real_ kiss, Curt’s consciousness is dominated by one thought and one thought alone, and the thrill of it is almost as good as the thrill of Owen’s deft, elegant fingers sliding down his back, riding up under his shirt.

The thought is: _so_ this _is what it feels like._

_Being in Owen Carvour’s arms._

_Being Owen Carvour’s girl._

It feels like he’s a tuning rod that’s been struck. He’s shaking like a leaf, not from the pain in his chest and leg but from the overwhelming weight of his want pressing down on him, choking the air from his lungs more effectively than any gelignite bomb ever could. Owen pulls away, concern tingeing his features, and Curt sets about kissing and biting his way down his partner’s jaw because he doesn’t want that look, not now, as much as he doesn’t want Owen to rebuff him as he had in Taiwan, finally realizing the mistake he is making.

A spike of panic shoots through Curt, even as Owen is gasping, arching up against him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, mouth pressed fiercely to Curt’s ear, ‘Fuck, Curt, I’m sorry.’ He chants it over and over again, like a prayer. ‘I’m sorry about Geneva. I’m sorry about Luzon. I’m sorry about Shufen, and Khatijah, and Leisel, and –’

It goes on. It only stops when Curt uses his teeth to lower Owen’s fly – a trick he’s learnt from five years of maneuvering women out of their dresses – and Owen lets out a long and defeated sigh, lying back down again.

‘That’s cool,’ he says, with a little of that astonishment Curt's been seeking, ‘That’s _very_ cool.’

Curt looks up at him and grins, the zipper still clasped between his teeth. (Although he drops it when they both begin to laugh, and that feeling of panic never really leaves him, even when Owen stops laughing and starts making other noises, but Curt figures that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Panic keeps you on your toes. Panic is a spy’s greatest asset).

He closes his eyes, steadies himself, and returns to the matter at hand.

 

 

 

As it happens, there isn’t much you _can_ do with a full-leg cast and a punctured lung, but they find a way. Owen’s skin is warm from hours spent lying in the sun, and afterwards Curt thinks he could happily spend the rest of his days just lying there with him if they weren’t due to dock in twenty minutes. He goes to move, and Owen grunts, flexing the arm he’s got under Curt’s neck up into a right angle.

‘I have you in a chokehold,’ he mumbles, ‘Do not attempt to resist.’

Curt reaches up and attempts to free himself.

‘You’re getting mushy again.’

Owen sighs, presses his mouth to the inside of Curt’s wrist.

‘Mm. Still mushy, and hey! When I did that to Lady Khatijah you told me it was lame.’

‘That’s because it _is_ lame when you do it.’

Owen eventually releases him and he sits up, feeling his bruised abdomen protest as he reaches over for his crutches. Then he pauses, his gaze caught on something.

There’s a scar cleaving Owen’s back in two, spanning from a nasty looking laceration by his shoulder and curving around his hip. It’s white and faded, but the skin on the right side is visibly tough and rubbery. He traces his finger along the dividing scar, lips set in a thin line.

‘Mm,’ Owen turns a little, one dark eye trained on his hand, ‘Got that in Korea.’

‘Must’ve hurt.’

Curt is determined not push Owen for answers. He wants this to be as natural as possible. Luckily, the Englishman seems to be in a particularly loquacious mood this evening.

‘I wouldn’t remember. Mortar shell, knocked me out for days. Almost blew me back to London.’

‘This was when you were with MI6?’

Owen shakes his head. ‘No, Commonwealth. I was – a liaison, between the Australians and the Koreans. It was…’ he frowns, as if he is trying to remember, ‘nice. Cushy job. Big city. All very exotic.’

‘What happened?’

Owen snuffles around a little, rolls onto his back. He looks up at Curt and grimaces.

‘Well, they wrapped up _that_ operation back in ’51. BCOF disbanded, and I got send to the Kansas Line. I served there for… six months, maybe more.’ He reaches over and takes Curt’s hand again. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. It was boring more than anything else. After the shrapnel got me, I could still walk, but they were afraid I’d get sepsis from the wounds. They sent me back to Seoul, where Dickey – that’s the guy we spoke to in Damascus, you remember?’ Curt nods, smooths his thumb over Owen’s knuckles. ‘Yeah, well. Dickey recommended me to Intelligence. Out of the fire and into the frying pan, I suppose.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Owen waves him away, then curls onto his side, his head in Curt’s lap. Curt cards a hand through his hair, thinking to himself.

‘When we first met… you asked me if I served, didn’t you?’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Curt grumbles, ‘And it’s not true.’

‘What was I thinking?’

‘You were thinking: _gee, I bet Owen thinks I’m such a coward because I didn’t serve in the war._ I don’t think any less of a man for shying away from violence, Curt. I hope you know that.’

‘But in Luzon –’

‘I still think you should have shot that guy.’ Owen glances up at him, eyes alight with mirth. ‘I don’t have a problem with passivity, love. Just not in this line of work. Quit, and I’ll support you one hundred percent.’

‘I don’t think I’m passive,’ Curt muses, ‘Merciful, maybe.’

There’s a pause.

‘Why’d you join?’

‘Join what?’

‘The CIA.’

‘Oh,’ Curt laughs, grimly, ‘Fear, I suppose. It was after Joe 1. My mother was keeping track of the fallout trail, watching the news like it was a soap opera, and I remember coming into the lounge one day and hearing that speech. _We have evidence that within recent weeks an atomic explosion occurred in the USSR._ ’

‘Woke you up, did it? Rather rudely?’

‘It terrified the living shit out of me is what it did.’ Curt’s hand stills in Owen’s hair and he looks down at him; his sad mouth, his big, dark eyes. He wonders about a world in which he never joined the CIA, where they never met. He wonders if he would have been happier.

He wonders if Owen would have been happier.

‘You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ Owen murmurs, and kisses his wrist again. Somehow, Curt doesn’t think he’s talking about the atom bomb.

Later, as they’re getting dressed, Curt watches the scar ripple as Owen pulls on his shirt, starker now that they’ve brought the lights up.

‘It really didn’t hurt?’

‘Not at the time.’ Curt catches his eye in the vanity mirror, his gaze sharp. ‘Hurt like hell when I woke up. Couldn’t breathe on my own for a long time because of the scar tissue. They had me hooked up to a machine. That hurt the most, being helpless.’

‘I know what you mean.’

Owen starts, horrified.

‘Oh god, Curt, I didn’t –’

Curt laughs and pulls himself up onto his crutches. ‘It’s alright. I’m just happy you’re here to save me, you limey bastard. But you've got to make sure you don’t get injured in the process.’

‘I won’t,’ Owen’s tone is serious as he wraps his arms around Curt’s waist, ‘Way I figure it, I’ve been in enough trouble for one lifetime. Nobody can kill me now.’

‘Except me, I could kill you.’

‘Yes,’ Owen smiles sourly, ‘You could do it.’

He’s about to say something else. Curt doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPWGPYhe_Mo)


End file.
